For the Crown
by Court81981
Summary: Panem AU. Thirty-six girls will vie for the crown. But only one will hold Prince Peeta's heart. An Everlark love story inspired by Kiera Cass's Selection trilogy.
1. Chapter 1-The Envelope

_**Author's Note— **As a few of my other WIPs are winding down, I've been working on this new WIP. I have to say that I'm having a lot of fun writing this. Kiera Cass's Selection trilogy was basically marketed as "THG meets the Bachelor" but I wanted to do an Everlark twist and explore a lot of ideas that I thought fell flat in those novels. I hope you'll enjoy it. _

_As always, the reason this idea even left my head is iLoveRynMar, who not only recommended the Cass series to me, but who encouraged this and wouldn't let the idea of Prince Peeta go. Thank you, my love. Thank you also to HGRomance, who pre-read this first chapter when I submitted to F4LLS last summer. And many thanks to the talented Ro for her gorgeous cover._

_And thank you to all the readers who continue to support me. I appreciate it so much. Look for more updates soon._

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><p><em><strong>~Chapter 1-The Envelope~<strong>_

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><p>"Katniss! It came! It's here!" Prim's blue eyes dance with excitement, and her braids whip around as she slams the front door and waves something in my face, her hand moving as rapidly as a hummingbird's wings. My stomach does a swan dive.<p>

I don't even need a closer look at the cream-colored envelope or the elegant embossed script to know what lies inside. I can see the familiar crest in the upper left-hand corner. There's been a tempered buzz droning through the district in recent days just waiting to erupt into feverish pandemonium.

And now that the envelopes have gone out, I guess we have to brace for the unavoidable chaos that will descend on all of Panem like a Hovercraft: the Reaping is upon us. An event eighteen years in the making. An event that fate has already tinkered with several times over. An event that I have no choice but to submit to no thanks to Fate, that fickle bitch.

I stare at the envelope. Twenty-four days. Twenty-four days made all the difference. Twenty-four lousy, measly days and my name would not be waltzing across the flawless ecru cardstock, like some kind of interloper. But there it is: _Lady Katniss, House of Everdeen_. That makes me laugh. House of Everdeen. Like our modest little cottage is some kind of royal dwelling.

I suppose it really was naïve of me to think anything could derail the inevitable. Or that somehow my name would have gotten left off a list, or my envelope lost in the mail, or…

"It's here!" My mother breezes into the room, a facsimile of my younger sister, her youthful face alight with glee. "Oh, Katniss, open it, dear. What are you waiting for?"

I shrug. "I know what's inside."

My mother huffs and snatches the envelope from my hand, her eyes glazing over a bit as she stares at my name on the front. She looks dreamy and dazed, like one of her patients on morphling, as she crosses to the antique stationery desk that used to be my grandfather's. She grabs the letter opener from the top drawer and swiftly slits open the envelope, the sharp hiss sucking all the air from the room, and from my lungs. It's like Pandora's box—all the bad stuff escaping at once, except this time, I don't think there's any hope left behind. Hope is a fickle bitch too. She and Fate could start a club.

Prim bounds back into the room, her decrepit old tabby cat, Buttercup, in her arms. "Katniss, why do you look as though you've been sucking on a lemon? You should be happy! I wish I were old enough for the Reaping."

I sigh. And here I was, wishing my mother had kept me inside the security of her womb for just three-and-a-half more weeks. She may have nurtured me and protected me for eight months, but those precious 24 days have left me exposed now, sixteen years later.

My parents had married young, and I had been somewhat of an unexpected surprise. I had not been due until the fourth of June, but as the story goes (and they tell it every year on my birthday, so I've heard it no fewer than fifteen times) I was an impatient, impulsive baby from conception, and I was not willing to wait that long. I couldn't even wait for my mother to finish assisting in the delivery of Gisele Fontaine, and I was born shortly after her, in the Fontaines' living room, on May the eighth. (Mrs. Fontaine had labored for nearly two days with Gisele; I, by contrast, took just twelve minutes.)

And thus, my premature entry into the world is the very reason why my mother is presently pulling out the contents of the envelope, her dreamy smile yielding to one that borders on maniacal.

"Oh, it even smells divine!" Prim croons, her eyes closing as she takes a deep whiff of the stiff paper. "What is that? Rose? Orchid?"

"Desperation," I mutter under my breath.

My mother shoots me a poisonous look, then straightens up and clears her throat. She begins to read from the starched sheet in her hand. "Greetings, Honored Daughter of Panem! What good fortune you have to be the recipient of an application for the Reaping!"

"What's all the excitement about in here?" My father's voice is a welcome intrusion, and I appeal to him with my eyes as his gaze roams from me to Prim, from Prim to Mom, and back to me.

"Katniss got her Reaping application!" Prim shrieks. Buttercup leaps from her arms and slinks under the couch. There is no love lost between me and that mangy cat, but right now I'd be content to squash in beside him beneath the sofa.

His expression is hard to read. While my mother has made no secret of her feelings about this whole Reaping business, my father has never voiced an opinion, not that I can remember. I'd like to think no matter what he feels about it he'd be sympathetic to _my _plight.

"So the prince is eighteen now, is he?"

"Prince Peeta was eighteen three months ago!" Prim interjects, as if she's some sort of resident expert on the royal family and we're all peons for not knowing the inane details of their lives like Prince Peeta's birthdate or his favorite color. "Today is _June 1__st__,_ Papa."

"Ah, June the first," he echoes. "How could I have forgotten?"

Prim gives him a dubious look, and he laughs airily and tugs one of her braids. Then he comes to stand beside me, his arm winding around me, tethering me close like an anchor— my anchor. My father always knows how to steady me, and I immediately feel my spirits lift a tiny bit.

"Shall I continue?" my mother intones, irritation and impatience edging her words. She doesn't wait for any of us to offer a protest. "Having turned sixteen years of age by today, June 1st, and being no older than twenty years of age as of this date, you are required by the law of the nation of Panem to complete the enclosed application and deliver it in person to your district's Justice Building one week henceforth."

I've known this was coming practically all my life, but to hear it all confirmed in my mother's barely restrained gleeful tone hits me like a punch to the gut. My shoulders sag a little, and I know my father feels it, because he squeezes me a little tighter.

It's not that I'm truly worried about being chosen for the Reaping. Just thirty-six girls will be selected, three from each of Panem's twelve districts. From the submitted applications, the king and queen get to choose twelve, Prince Peeta gets to choose twelve, and the final twelve are drawn at random. While I'm not ugly by any stretch of the imagination, I'm not glamorous, and I'm far from the traditional princesses that appear in storybooks and fairy tales. My only real chance is being the one girl randomly selected to represent District 12, because there is just no good reason why King Wheaton and Queen Aster would choose me, and there are far more beautiful girls that will catch Prince Peeta's eye. The odds are in my favor that my application will go unnoticed, and I'll be free to live my life here in Twelve.

My irritation comes from the principle of the matter. I shouldn't have to fill out the silly application and even submit myself to this archaic process. How has the royal family not come up with a better way to find Prince Peeta a wife than a glorified contest? Can't the poor guy find a girl on his own? And must they force all of Panem to be witness to every last little step as he chooses his future queen?

Plus, let's be honest. We all know how it's going to work. Prince Peeta is looking for a trophy, and that's who he's going to pick: someone glittery and gorgeous who will stand by his side and smile and wave to their adoring subjects and give him lots of babies—maybe finally the girl that Panem has been waiting for. It's been four generations since the Mellark line birthed an actual princess.

"I want to go to the Justice Building with you!" Prim dances around me. "Say I can go to the Justice Building when you hand in your application, Katniss, please?"

"Primrose, hush," my mother chides, eyes still scanning the letter. A gleam enters them, her face breaking into a wide grin. "Listen, Katniss. 'Your application indicates your willingness to offer yourself as a potential—"

"Offer myself?" I exclaim. "They make it sound like a damn sacrifice! Are we back before the Dark Days?"

"Katniss!" my mother says sharply. She composes herself and resumes reading. "As I was saying, 'your application indicates your willingness to offer yourself as a potential bride for our beloved Prince Peeta. If you are one of the lucky tributes selected, you will be escorted to the palace in the Capitol where you will reside for as long as Prince Peeta retains you as a viable candidate for his princess."

"Who wrote this? It sounds so clinical, so…ugh!" It's so stupid that I can't even find words to describe it.

My mother ignores me. "And as a measure of gratitude for your time and your service to Panem, your family will be generously compensated."

Prim squeals and claps her hands. "I want to see the palace! I bet the chandeliers drip diamonds and the toilets have gold handles. Real gold! Katniss, you _have_ to make it far enough that we get to come and visit you!"

"Prim, you realize that the odds of me actually getting reaped—"

"Are as good as anyone else's!" she chirps, her optimism bordering on nauseating.

Really, it should be my sister filling out this application and going off to compete for Prince Peeta's heart. Prim is everything a princess should be: patient, diplomatic, selfless, beautiful. She's like a beacon of light; when she walks into a room, everything is illuminated. And she's been eating up this royal crap since she was old enough to clomp around in my mother's oversized heels, cupping her hand and giving us mock princess waves as she toddled through the house.

I'm sure there's a part of my mother who wishes it was Prim who was of age, too.

"I think you should take this up to your room and get started," my mother says. She thrusts the application towards me, and I wrinkle my nose as my fingers reluctantly graze the thin paper. She narrows her eyes at me. I sigh and grab the sheet, tamping down my irritation when I see the thing is two-sided and single-spaced. There must be a hundred questions!

But I listen to my mother. At least I do partially. I go up to my room and close the door behind me. I cross to my dresser and promptly jerk open my top drawer. I lift up the bras and camisoles and panties and bury the stupid application beneath my underwear. Then I slam the drawer shut with a satisfying bang.

And then I grab my boots from underneath my bed, jam my feet into them, and climb out my window.

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><p>The woods are my sanctuary. I can feel the tension melting away with every springy step of my boots on the plush carpet of moss that blankets the forest floor nearest to the glen. My muscles relax, and my heart lifts. The fresh air fills my lungs with more than oxygen; with every deep breath I inhale independence.<p>

When Prim was born this was where my father brought me. I was never one of those kids who exhibited any kind of jealousy about the new baby; I remember being really excited to have a brother or sister. But my father wanted me to know that I wasn't going to be any less special in his eyes now that he had two little girls. Through the years, it became our place though he can no longer come out here with me. He taught me how to hunt, and how to fish, and how to identify the edible nuts and berries scattered among the foliage. Those skills come in handy when times get tough, which seems to be more often than not lately.

This afternoon I duck through low-hanging branches and step carefully to avoid crushing the wildflowers that fleck the grassy tableau like paint splotches. I reach the creek and remove my boots and socks, settling on a large rock. The crystal clear water is a shock to my system at first, but I quickly adjust to the temperature and flick my toes back and forth, gazing up through the canopy.

Wisps of white clouds drift lazily across the sky. One particular cluster of them looks like the turrets of a castle, and in spite of my better efforts, I find myself thinking about the Reaping.

There's a small part of me that wishes I could be more receptive to the whole thing. Most girls of reaping age are probably eagerly filling out their applications, already anxiously counting down the minutes until we can file them next week. They're agonizing over their answers, vacillating back and forth between telling the truth and writing down what they think the king and queen and Prince Peeta want to hear.

Well, I'll be telling the truth. I'd never want to be anyone but myself. If and when I give my heart to a boy, he'll love me for me. I wouldn't want someone who doesn't want me for who I am. Besides I'm not dumb enough to think that I'm princess material. Not that I harbor any belief that I'll be among the girls Prince Peeta chooses from, but if by some crazy twist of fate I'm reaped, I suspect I'd be among the first to politely be shown the doors.

I tear my eyes away from the sky and scan the water. A flash of quicksilver catches my attention, and something compels me to lean forward and plunge my hand down and snatch at it. My fist closes around a minnow; I smile triumphantly and release the wriggling fish back into the creek. My reflexes have sharpened since I was a child.

After a while I retreat back into the open field. I weave some daisies into a chain, and I blow some dandelion seeds into the light breeze. The sun drapes me in a delicious warmth, and I lie down, closing my eyes for just a second—a second that quite evidently becomes hours. When I open my eyes again the sun is slipping down the horizon like a runny egg yolk, and dusk beckons._ Dammit! _

I scramble to my feet and take off running. As I reach town I keep to the alleys between buildings, taking a shortcut through the Hob. My house comes into view, and when I stop below my window I pause to gulp in much needed oxygen then grab hold of the lowest hanging branch and swing myself up to lunge for my window.

"Now see, this is where I could imagine that the Palace of Panem would present you with some difficulties. Those walls would be quite the challenge to scale." My father's voice startles me enough that my boot catches on the ledge of the windowsill, and I start to plummet forward into my room. His strong arm grips my elbow and he hauls me up before I can face-plant on the carpet. His lips are set in a determined line, but his eyes dance with mirth as I straighten up and give him a sheepish grin.

"It's past curfew," he says quietly.

"I fell asleep in the meadow—" I start to explain, but my father holds up a hand.

"You weren't feeling well when it was time for dinner." He winks conspiratorially and produces a napkin. I accept it gratefully and unwrap a small pocket of pastry. Then his face gets solemn. "Your mother sent me up here to get you for _The Capitol Report_."

I groan inwardly. I completely forgot. _The Capitol Report_ is an inane entertainment news program that Prim devours like ambrosia. Of course tonight of all nights there will be a special edition focusing on the Reaping, and the highlight will be an interview with the royal family. It's mandatory viewing. And it begins promptly at eight. Dinner I can miss. _The Capitol Report_ I cannot.

"How long ago was that?" I ask, bracing myself for the answer.

He arches a brow at me. "Twenty minutes. You cut it awfully close."

"Sorry." I cast my eyes down at the floor. I can't stand disappointing my father.

But he lifts my chin and forces me to look into his eyes, mirrors of my own. "Just be sure you watch the time when you're out there, kitten." Then he reaches up and plucks something from my hair. He shows me the aspen leaf, shakes his head, and winks. "I'll tell your mother you'll be down in a minute."

"Thanks, Dad." I give him a fierce hug. He closes my door behind him.

I kick off my boots and shove them back under my bed, debating whether I should change into my pajamas now or after the program. I decide to wait, but I do tug off the elastic band fastening my braid into place and unravel it, combing out my long tresses with my fingers. I take a moment and stare into the mirror. There's a flush to my cheeks from being outside for so long, and the wavy kinks in my hair give it a rippling effect. I crack a half-smile. I've never given much thought to my looks, but when I think about it and truly study my reflection, I guess I can say I'm pretty. Nothing special, but pretty enough.

My mother and Prim are curled together on the couch when I enter the living room, while my father's nose is buried in a book in his armchair. I slump onto the far corner of the couch, stretching my legs out in front of me, resigning myself for a mind-numbing hour of trivial chatter.

Prim squeals when the opening theme of _The Capitol Report_ plays, and Caesar Flickerman's garish face looms on the screen. His skin has an orange tone to it tonight. His hair is dyed a deep purple, tied back with a satiny silver ribbon. His teeth gleam, blinding as freshly fallen snow.

"Good evening Panem! Welcome to a very special _Capitol Report_. This is the night you've been waiting for. Can you_ feel_ the excitement? I'm coming to you _live_ from—" He pauses dramatically. Then the camera pans back and he gesticulates wildly. "—the Palace of Panem. Do you see this magnificence? Such grandeur! Such beauty! Do you want to go inside? Do you? Let's go, shall we?"

I shake my head and pick at a cuticle. Does he realize what a dolt he sounds like, rattling off these rhetorical questions to himself? But then I glance over at my mother and my sister, who are both gazing at the television in a trance, grinning and nodding as if Caesar himself can see them. I roll my eyes.

Caesar practically struts up the palace steps, and it's blatantly obvious that this is all staged, because there are only two guards flanking the doors, but when they pull the doors open, the camera fades to black, and the seal of Panem appears, accompanied by our national anthem. By the time he reappears the scene has changed entirely, and he's in a small, opulent room, bathed in bright light and tastefully decorated. He introduces some pre-packaged clip that's all black and white and somber, detailing the history of Panem, and how our 'brave kingdom' rose out of the ashes of the former United States of America. It's the same propaganda that our social studies textbooks are filled with. I've heard it all before.

The first clip yields to a second glossier production celebrating the shift in government from the democracy that used to govern America to the monarchy that supplanted it when the Mellark family assumed power. I zone out somewhere around the part where Bannock Mellark, American hero of the third World War, makes an impassioned plea that the world was less violent when kings and queens assumed all sovereignty and civilians didn't 'muddy the waters of reason.' In my opinion, Bannock Mellark was a pompous windbag, and a lot of dumb people bought the shit he shoveled. There were plenty of wars and bloodshed in the Dark Days. Kings and queens and presidents and prime ministers are no less human and flawed than the rest of us.

"Oh my gosh, look at that dress! It's exquisite!" Prim's fan-girling brings me back to reality, and when I look to the screen I see Caesar sitting in an elaborate, high-backed chair. His outlandish outfit nearly clashes with the upholstery, and I have to bite back a laugh. Seated across from him on a couch are King Wheaton and Queen Aster.

Queen Aster is the very picture of elegance, with her blonde hair swept into a tight chignon, not a strand out of place. The glossy locks catch the light and gleam brightly. Most people gush over her beauty, but I've always found her features harsh, severe, and she comes off a little cold to me. Her smile never quite reaches those clear blue eyes. Prim is right, though. Her dress is embroidered with what must be a million tiny jewels, and the deep azure hue complements her porcelain skin and accentuates her eyes.

King Wheaton, on the other hand, exudes warmth. His dark blue eyes are creased with laugh lines, and he's rarely without a smile.

Caesar rambles with some sycophantic greeting, really laying it on thick about how the whole country has been waiting a lifetime for this day to come. He summarizes the Reaping process, I guess for those one or two citizens of Panem who might have spent the last few months living under a rock.

The king and queen both beam, and she makes some long-winded statement about the honor of the Reaping. She's an eloquent enough speaker, but there is something so…artificial about her that once she starts going on and on about knowing 'how every young woman in Panem feels tonight,' I can't buy her words as sincere. Yes, Queen Aster was the victor of the last Reaping nearly thirty years ago, and yes, she won the crown, as well as King Wheaton's heart, so I guess she speaks from experience. But I've just never seen any evidence of that great love between them.

Caesar's eyes twinkle with merriment and his wide smile is as bright as a camera bulb's flash when the subject then turns to the "man of the hour." King Wheaton emanates pride when he begins to speak of Prince Peeta, but he only gets in a few words before Queen Aster hijacks the conversation and steers it towards the impending competition.

"This day has been something I have looked forward to since the day the prince was born," she explains. Her blue eyes well with unshed tears and her face becomes somber. "It's a little bittersweet, of course, because if things were different, well…" Her voice trembles, and King Wheaton reaches over and pats her hand comfortingly. It's the first time I see them touch.

Prince Peeta is an only child, but he is not the king and queen's firstborn son. Nor is he their second born. He had two elder brothers, both of whom passed away under tragic circumstances. Prince Marcus contracted bacterial meningitis and died two weeks shy of his fifth birthday, and six years ago, Prince Stefan perished in a hovercraft crash that also killed his nanny and two royal guards.

"There there, Your Majesty," Caesar wheedles, his face a mask of sympathy and sorrow. But then as if a switch is flipped, he tosses his head and grins broadly. "Perhaps your handsome son can put a smile back on your lovely face. What do you say, Panem? Shall we bring out Prince Peeta?"

"Yes! Yes!" Prim says breathlessly. I stifle a snort and sneak another glimpse at my father. He's closed his book for this part; his grey eyes are focused on the screen.

A dramatic swell of music precedes the national anthem of Panem. Lights flash, and then Prince Peeta strides into the room. The camera zooms in on his smiling face as he crosses to where his parents are seated.

I've never paid much attention to Prince Peeta before. It's always seemed foolish to me to make such a big deal about someone, just because they were lucky enough to be born to the right parents. I've seen him on television doing ceremonial things, like visiting the national cemetery on Remembrance Day. He always appears picture-perfect, but I don't think I've ever heard him speak. Maybe that's preserved some sort of air of mystery to him. Still, if you'd asked me my opinion of the prince I'd be hard pressed to really have anything to say.

But seeing him on our television screen right now…I can kind of see what all the fuss is about. Even I cannot deny that he is incredibly handsome. He's dressed all in white, the lone splash of color being a gold handkerchief—_real_ gold it appears—tucked in the left breast pocket of his jacket. His blond hair is the color of wheat and perfectly styled, not a flaxen strand out of place. His fair skin has a glow to it, and my eyes are drawn to the lines of his cheekbones and his jaw, strong and so masculine. When the camera pans in for a close up, as he settles beside his mother, he looks directly into the lens and smiles. His eyes are bluer than the sky on a summer day.

My throat is suddenly like a desert. When I try to swallow, it's gritty and hot and takes effort. I need a glass of water.

"He's so gorgeous, Katniss! Imagine…" Prim trails off dreamily, a goofy smile on her face.

I won't imagine. I can't allow myself to think like that. Gorgeous or not, there's more to a guy than good looks and a fancy title. A pretty package can conceal something far less pretty on the inside.

This whole thing still sucks.

"My, my, my!" Caesar howls. "Prince Peeta! How are you this evening?"

Prince Peeta gives another dazzling smile and replies, "I'm good, Caesar, thank you. How are you?"

Caesar laughs. "Oh, no one wants to hear about me, your Highness. We are here for _you_. There are thousands of young ladies watching you at this very moment, waiting on pins and needles to hear from you on this momentous occasion. Tell us, how are you feeling?"

"To tell you the truth, Caesar, I'm feeling a little unwell at the moment." He pauses and allows for Caesar to look appropriately alarmed, and then Prince Peeta laughs good-naturedly. "Oh, nothing serious. A healthy dose of nerves does not mix well with two servings of our very talented cook's lamb stew."

"Ohhhh does that sound delicious!" Caesar croons.

Prince Peeta's eyes sparkle as he nods in agreement. "There is something about the mint and the plums that…"

I don't hear the rest of his explanation over the loud rumble of my stomach. Of course the royal family would eat more indulgent meals than the rest of Panem, especially those of us in the outer districts, where food is not always plentiful and it's definitely never varied. Food exists for subsistence, not for decadence. I imagine the Reaped will eat better than most of them have ever eaten before. I'm a little envious of those girls who will be chosen for that simple reason alone.

By the time I return my attention to the television Prince Peeta is offering a very diplomatic answer about the tradition of the Reaping and how he's honored to be part of the process that brought his parents—and his grandparents—together. He speaks with a quiet confidence that I guess comes from living his life in the very public eye.

"Now tell me, Prince Peeta." Caesar lowers his voice and leans forward just a little, as if he and the prince are old friends about to share some kind of sordid secret. "What is it that you are most looking for in your future bride?"

"Caesar, you know if I tell you that I'd have to have you caned, don't you?" The teasing edge to his voice betrays the seriousness of what he's implying. Caning is one of the many public punishments the districts are threatened with to keep us in line, but that particular one is usually reserved for traitors and acts of treason.

"What's 'caned' mean?" Prim pipes up.

"Oh, don't you worry about that, my little duck." My father reaches across the space between his chair and the couch to rub Prim's hand reassuringly. "The prince is joking."

"He's not allowed to divulge any of his preferences," my mother explains. "It would taint the applications if girls tried to alter their answers to match his wishes."

Caesar and Prince Peeta continue their banter for a few minutes. The host tries to goad the prince into revealing the tiniest of personal details, but beyond knowing what he had for dinner, Prince Peeta is a closed book. And yet he manages to be charming and charismatic, and I can just imagine girls all over Panem gazing at their television sets with glazed eyes, slack jaws, and wildly beating hearts—much the way Prim looks at the moment, actually.

I find it a total waste of an hour. Most of the remaining program focuses on the king and queen and their own Reaping 25 years ago. The final ten minutes is a pre-taped segment, with Caesar talking to Claudius Templesmith, the pre-eminent royal adviser, and they speculate on some of the girls who might be chosen by the king or queen. I yawn. It's no mystery that among their twelve selections will be girls with influential parents and ties to foreign nations. I'd wager anything that 12's is Madge Undersee, the mayor's daughter. She's blonde, pretty, and quiet—the perfect trophy wife.

I'm relieved when Caesar gushes his farewells, and promises to see us all in two weeks' time—the night the Reaped will be revealed to the kingdom. The last notes of the anthem play and the screen fades to black. I can tell my mother wants to discuss the program, but my father suggests we all turn in early tonight. Prim protests, but Dad holds firm. My father locks the front door, and we all trudge upstairs.

After I wash my face and scrub my teeth clean, I retreat to our room and close the door. Prim has already changed into her nightgown and sits on my bed with her hairbrush in her lap. Since she was a toddler brushing her hair for her has been part of our nightly ritual.

"How come you're not more excited about the Reaping?" she asks.

I sigh and pull the brush through her long blonde hair with careful strokes. "I don't know, Prim."

"But Prince Peeta…he's so handsome. And he seems so nice!"

"He does seem nice, yes," I concur. I can't deny that the prince was very pleasant in his interview.

She whips around, nearly taking the brush and a chunk of her hair with it. "You don't think he's handsome?" She looks incredulous, practically aghast.

I close my eyes and conjure up the image of Prince Peeta's_ very_ handsome face. A little ripple wends through my belly before I quickly open my eyes and fight the heat rising up my neck. "I didn't say he wasn't handsome," I say carefully. "But that's part of my problem with the Reaping, Prim. The entire thing begins with girls being judged solely on their looks."

Prim counters, "That's why they have the applications!" She argues how the girls' answers to those questions reveal things like beliefs and interests—things that would prove compatibility with the prince. I toss out my theory that no one is entirely honest on those questionnaires, but I keep my other thought—the one that ultimately the winner of the Reaping will be a girl who has no real opinions and can just smile and look pretty on Prince Peeta's arm—to myself.

Prim shrugs dismissively and snatches the brush from my hand. "Then that's the point of you all living in the palace and Prince Peeta courting you and why there are such strict rules for how he eliminates girls and how long the competition lasts. He has to get to know the real person behind the fancy portrait and puffed-up answers."

I scoff and climb off Prim's bed and start for my own bed. Turning down my comforter I say, "You say "you" like it's some kind of given that I'm going to be reaped, Prim."

Prim hops down and comes to stand beside me, placing her arm on my shoulder. I straighten and face her. Her blue eyes shine and she fixes me with a look of pure determination. "You would be an amazing princess, Katniss. You do so much for Mom and Dad, and me, and you're selfless, and you're loyal, and—"

"And I'm very happy here in 12. This is my home, Prim. With you, and Mom and Dad."

Prim shakes her head. "You're sixteen. This isn't going to be your home forever. Once the names are reaped, the girls who aren't selected are free to be courted. There are boys all over Panem waiting for the chance to finally get to start _their_ lives. You're crazy if you think you'll never have to marry and start a family."

I press my lips together and give my sister a faint smile. "Let's go to sleep," I suggest, sweeping her words away as if they were a clump of dust bunnies. She's giving me far too much to consider right before bed.

As I slide beneath my sheets, I hear Prim rustling to get comfortable in her bed. Soon a steady mingling of her breathing and faint snores come from her corner of the room. But I lie awake staring at the ceiling, Prim's words resurfacing like bad reflux.

Perhaps it's not only the Reaping I'm disgusted with. Prim is right. Well, she's not right in her misguided confidence that I will be headed to Panem Palace to vie for Prince Peeta's hand in marriage. She's right that _when_ I'm not chosen to be one of the reaped the other boys here in 12 will be allowed to visit my parents and ask for the right to date me. No matter what happens in the next week, reaped or not, I have very little say in my own future.

I drift off to sleep, a sour taste in my mouth, as I try not to think about the fact that my life is about to radically change—and not in a way I want or am fully prepared for.


	2. Chapter 2-The Application

**_Author's__ Note—_**_Thank you so much for the response to Chapter 1! I'm thrilled so many people are excited by the prospect of this story.__I'm excited to share it with you. I'm having a lot of fun writing it. _

_For those of you who are wary of Gale's involvement, yeah, he's here…but I am not following the triangle from The Selection. His affections are one-sided. This is Everlark all the way._

_Thank you to iLoVeRynMar for plotting and pre-reading and reassuring and motivating me. ILY. All mistakes are mine._

_This chapter is dedicated to Pookieh. Congratulations on the new arrival, my dear. :) LY._

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><p><em><strong>~*~Chapter 2-The Application~*~<strong>_

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><p>My mother harasses me incessantly over the next three days about the application. Every chance she gets she pesters me as to whether or not I've completed the damn thing. Each time I give her my sweetest smile and lie that I'm working on it, but I know I'm not fooling her. I've never been a proficient liar, and conversely, my mother has always had an uncanny knack for seeing right through me to the truth.<p>

On the fourth morning after the envelope arrived, she bursts into Prim's and my bedroom, throwing back our threadbare curtains with a flourish. A weak shaft of sunlight slants directly across my face. I turn and bury my face in the pillow with a muffled groan of protest.

"There are three days until your Reaping application needs to be submitted to the Justice Building," she barks. "Have you even started it?"

My silence only exacerbates her patience with me—or rather, the lack thereof.

"I don't know why you're not taking this more seriously," she huffs, tugging back my sheet. I curl up like a sow bug and scowl. "Whatever you've done with that application, Katniss Everdeen, you _will_ complete it. Today!" She gives me a look to say she means business and spins on her heel. Stopping to linger in the doorway, her cloying smile imitates the one I've been flashing at her. "And you're not leaving this room until you do. Get up, get dressed, and get going."

Her footsteps retreat. I sigh and roll onto my back, flailing my arms out to either side of me. I start when I see Prim standing over me, a devious smile on her usually angelic face.

"I could do your application for you," she suggests.

I think she's kidding. But she might _not_ be kidding. Her clear blue eyes, so like my mother's, dance with mischief. I regard her carefully and weigh her offer. It is incredibly tempting to let Prim take that burden off my hands. It probably wouldn't even take her that long! She's always finished with her studies before I am.

But then I think about my sister sitting there, her meticulous handwriting filling the lines with answers I could never dream up. They'd probably be the exact kind of responses that the prince would be looking for. What then?

"Where is the application, Kat?" Prim's voice rouses me from my reverie.

"Oh, um, it's in there." I motion to my dresser. Prim arches a pale brow at me. She crosses the room and yanks open my underwear drawer. I hear her rifling through my bras and panties, until she pulls out the sheet and displays it to me.

"Primrose!" We both turn at the sound of my mother's voice. "Leave your sister alone! She has work to do."

Prim gives me a rueful smile and hands me the application. "Good luck." She grabs a slim paperback book from her nightstand and skips out of the room.

As if to add insult to injury, my stomach growls loudly. I'm missing breakfast. I hope Prim will take pity on me and sneak me up some of whatever my father has prepared. I know Lady was milked yesterday and there's probably fresh goat cheese. Dammit. Now I'm craving cheese buns.

I set the application down on the small desk Prim and I share, and after I dress, I sit down on the end of my bed. Tucking my knees to my chest, I gaze out the window. The day is overcast. The thin disk of sun struggles to sporadically peek through the clotted clouds. The air smells of honeysuckle and impending rain. I'm debating sneaking out to the woods again when a movement below catches my eye. I see Gale Hawthorne making his way up to our front, his toolbox in his left hand.

Nearly all the girls at school find Gale attractive. And I suppose he is, although I've never given much thought to him in that way. He's tall and muscular, with dark, wavy hair that always looks like he just rolled out of bed. His eyes are nearly the same shade of grey as mine, as is his olive skin. We look like we could be related, and at times it feels like we are related. Maybe that's why I'm not falling at his feet, like the other girls. It's also probably why so many of those other girls glare at me and whisper behind my back. Gossip flies faster than mockingjays in the halls at school. I know there are rumors about him and me. I just don't care enough to dismiss them. Let them talk.

Gale's a good guy though. He works hard to support his family, helping his mother by earning what he can when he's not toiling away in the mines—the same mines where his father and my father used to work together, right up until the cave-in that killed Mr. Hawthorne and left my father maimed but alive. Both of our families received small settlements. They paid for Mr. Hawthorne's funeral and my father's prosthetic legs. My father can no longer work or do many of the rigorous activities that he used to enjoy, but at least we have him. The Hawthornes are not so fortunate.

The accident is what brought our families even closer together. While my father recovered, my mother spent most of her time tending to him. There was only so much that I could do, being in school half the day. Prim was far too young to really be of much help, though Prim being Prim, she tried valiantly to play nursemaid to my father. So my parents hired Gale's mother to do much of the cooking and cleaning around our house until things could settle into our new normal. We were lucky to be able to afford that, thanks to the modest payments my mother got from the district for her services as a midwife. (The chatter about 12 getting a formal birthing center has never come to fruition. As far as I know, outside the Capitol, only 1 and 2 have them.)

Recently my parents have also started paying Gale a small fee for odd jobs around our house: fixing leaky pipes, cleaning gutters, shoveling snow—things that my father would have done with ease before the accident. Over time, he's learned how to do some of these tasks with his new legs, but there are just some things that require a younger, more able body.

I can hear my mother's melodic voice as she welcomes Gale and a moment later I hear the front door close. His presence here makes my decision for me—the woods can wait for later and I'll extend an invitation to him to join me. When he can get the time, Gale enjoys the forest as much as I do, and if I bag something good, like a doe or a small buck, he can help me lug it to the Hob to be sold.

My lips lift reflexively at the thought. I leap off my bed, duck under the disheveled comforter, and grope my hand around until it finds purchase with the subtle bevel in the wood floor. I pry the board up and start groping again. There's always a danger that I'll find something furry, like a mouse (alive or dead), but it's only happened a handful of times.

Today there's nothing but cool metal. I ease the box out of its hiding spot and set it in my lap. The hinge is starting to rust and the lid doesn't completely close at the top right corner, but the box fits inside the niche perfectly, so it has to suffice.

I open the box and smile at the contents. The bounties of my many trades with the patrons of the Hob lie inside. My parents wouldn't approve of my black market dealings, chiefly because what I do is illegal and I could face severe punishment if caught. But the risk will be worth the reward, once I have enough squirreled away. It's just going to take awhile.

A noise outside startles me. Hastily, I shove the box back into its place, fit the loose board back, nearly trapping my hand in the process, and then I rush to slide into the desk chair. I glare at the application for a full minute before I begin. I lean my cheek in my hand and start to read through the directions.

There's a long introduction about being honest and "letting your answers come from your heart," which is followed by a warning that all of those answers come from "the applicant and only the applicant." In fact, there's an oath to sign that will affirm I was the one to complete the application in its entirety. So much for Prim's offer. Failure to comply with these guidelines, the fine print says, will result in nullification of the application and/or risk of removal from any subsequent stage of the Reaping competition.

Finally I reach the start of the application itself. Name and date of birth are easy enough. I pen _Katniss Everdeen_ in my neatest handwriting and glare at the numbers of my birthdate as I fill in the three blank spaces.

The third question asks my district of residence. Another easy one. I jot down '12' and place the pen between my teeth as I skim Question #4: "What do you like best about living in your home district?"

Chewing on the end of the pen, I have to think about that one. A myriad of things that I don't like about 12 flit through my brain: the mines, the pervasive stench of the mills, the curfews (though all the Districts have those), the frequent hunger when the weather is bad enough to prevent deliveries…the list keeps unfurling in my head. There is very little to actually _like_ about living in 12. But it's still home. I guess that's my answer. I remove the pen from my mouth and begin to press it to the paper.

A knock interrupts me. Before I can utter a word, my mother opens the door and fixes me with a critical look. Her expression softens when she sees I'm sitting at the desk.

"Making progress I see?"

"I've answered three questions," I reply smugly. "And started the fourth." Her face falls and her blue eyes narrow.

"You've been up here for nearly an hour and that's all you've done?" She sighs exasperatedly and opens the door wider. Gale loiters in the hallway behind her.

"Gale is here to do some work in the yard, but before he starts, your father wants the track on your closet fixed. It won't take Gale long." She turns to him and explains that I am in the middle of something very important and asks him not to disturb me as I work.

"Absolutely, Mrs. Everdeen," he says. Satisfied, my mother gives me one final warning with her eyes before she leaves the room. Gale gives me a wide grin and sets his toolbox down near my closet.

"Hey Catnip," he says. "What's so important this morning? I've never seen your mother so high strung, except for after the accident." He crosses the room to peer over my shoulder. I gape at him a little. Does he really not know about the applications being sent out? I guess it's possible. Gale has two brothers, and his only sister Posy is just a toddler. There would be no letter and accompanying application going to the Hawthornes' home.

His face shifts like a thunderhead when he sees the Mellark crest at the top of the page. He shakes his head. "You're actually filling out that stupid thing?"

I twist and glare at him. "I don't have a choice. I'm of Reaping age." His grey eyes flicker, but he remains silent. There's something unsettling in his expression that smacks of accusation, and it irks me. I leap from my chair and jab a finger down at the directions. "What part of 'required by law' do you think implies that I have a choice, Gale?"

"There's always a choice."

"Right," I snap. "Like if your name came up in the draft you'd have the guts to tell King Wheaton—"

He takes a step closer to me and cuts me off. "My name can't come up in the draft if I've already signed up."

My jaw drops. This is the first I'm hearing of this. Gale and I tell each other nearly everything. One thing he has never been shy about is sharing his deep-seated anger towards the Mellark family and the monarchy of Panem. I've listened to him rail about King Wheaton countless times—like how he can allow his subjects to be treated differently simply based on where they had the fortune or misfortune to be born. Gale's ranted about disadvantages and lack of opportunity for hours. So to hear him say that he'd willingly sign up to _defend_ all of that—well, it strikes me dumb.

"You're putting your name in for military service?"

He shrugs. His eyes glint a little. "Like I said, I can't be drafted if I'm already in the candidacy pool…Point is, this way they're not deciding my future for me."

I crinkle my nose, confused. "But they kind of are. It's still ultimately leading to the same thing, whether you sign up for it or they choose you for it. You really want to be a Peacekeeper?"

He narrows his eyes at me. "I know I don't want to work in the mines forever. My options are limited here. And again, it's about choice. And this—" He plucks my application off the desk and dangles it in front of my nose. "This is not your choice."

I snatch it back from him. "It_ is_ my choice, Gale. I'm choosing to answer every question on this application as myself." I set the sheets back down on my desk, then plant my hands on my hips and face him again. "Besides, you really think they're going to choose me?"

He stares at me blankly. "Who?"

Rolling my eyes, I respond, "The King. The Queen. Prince Peeta." I find it hard to believe that Gale is unaware of how this entire process works. He may have been ignorant as to the timing of the Reaping, but he knows far too much about the inner workings of the monarchy. His rants are always balanced with fact and opinion. Gale would make a great politician actually, if he didn't hate on the District mayors and councils too. (Well, and if the king would ever actually appoint him—highly unlikely given his lack of pedigree.)

"Prince Peeta," Gale scoffs, his face hardening, his eyes like granite.

"What about him?" I ask. Gale shrugs, still grimacing. "Did you watch the _Report _last night?"

"Did I have a choice? Damned Peacekeepers were parked outside our door for a good fifteen minutes."

It's my turn to shrug. The Peacekeepers that patrol in the districts are part of the Panem National Guard. The most elite of these guards serve in the palace itself, protecting the royal family. Gale is of the opinion that the men who wind up in palace are the ones who couldn't cut it in basic training for the various branches of the military. It's been years since Panem faced a threat from abroad—King Wheaton is actually well liked among our allies. But Gale claims that it's only a matter of time before one of his own tries to seize power, or that a silent enemy emerges from the shadows and attempts a coup.

"I thought the Prince seemed…I don't know, kind of nice. It was the most I've heard him talk."

Gale glares at me. "Are you kidding? The guy just sat there flashing that big white smile. He didn't say anything of substance!"

"So you listened?" I joke, reaching out to shove his forearm playfully. "Gale Hawthorne actually paid attention to a _Capitol Report_?"

He ignores my teasing. "And what kind of guy needs a stupid competition to land him a girl?"

A sudden thread of compassion for the prince wends through my veins and I feel compelled to defend him. "It's not his choice! He was born into it. He's not the one who made up the Reaping rules. He just has to play by them."

Gale catches me by surprise when his other hand snags my wrist and he holds me in place firmly, though not hard enough to hurt me. "What would you do, Catnip? What would you do if you are reaped?"

I search his eyes, which are so penetrating that a little shiver runs through me, not unpleasant, but also unsettling. Shaking my wrist free, I walk over to the window and gaze out, more to break away from his intensity. I hate it when he gets like this, all hypothetical on me.

"It's not going to happen, Gale," I finally say. I sense him moving behind me, but I continue to look out the window at the lacy, sun-dappled shadows creeping across the lawn, the rays having broken through the cloud cover. "Like I said, I won't be the king or the queen's choice, and there is no way the prince would choose me, so it's really just the random draw I have to contend with. And there must be a hundred girls of Reaping age in 12."

"You sell yourself short," he murmurs, gently touching my shoulder. I jump at the contact. "You have a lot to offer a guy."

I snicker at his words. Like I have anything to offer Prince Peeta. Even more so now, after seeing him last night, I'm convinced the winner of the crown will be someone who can do exactly what he did: seduce a crowd of millions with a brilliant smile and some well-placed humor and charm.

"It'll all be over in a bit." I turn and gasp a little, nearly bumping into Gale. He backs away, but again that steely gaze roots me to where I stand, and for the first time I can remember I feel a little uncomfortable in his presence and I can't say why.

"And then maybe some other things can finally begin," he says.

I cock my head. I'm not sure what he means by that, but something tells me it has to do with what Prim was alluding to—the fact that he, like the other boys of 12, and every other District for that matter, will be permitted to court freely soon. The reminder that someone will be courting me is disagreeable enough to make me cross the room and stop beside my desk, looking for a distraction.

"I need to get working on this, or I'll never get to eat today. You should really start on those doors. My mother is going to wonder what it is you're doing in here."

He purses his lips, as if he's contemplating something, and then he walks to his toolbox, bends down, and start rummaging around. I watch him for a moment, as he scrutinizes the door and resumes hunting through the box.

"Oh, hey!" He looks up at my interjection. "If I get this stupid thing done, you up for a little trek to the woods later?"

He grins, screwdriver in hand, the tension suddenly gone from the room. "Absolutely."

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><p>It doesn't take Gale long to fix the closet door. I'm almost done with the first page on my application when he straightens up and makes a big production out of sliding the door back and forth, back and forth. The sharp squeal has been silenced. I thank him, but he seems reluctant to leave the room to go attend to the other tasks I know my mom has lined up for him. When I remind him that I have things to do if he wants to be able to go to the woods, he hastily puts his tools away and makes a quick exit. I turn my attention back to the application.<p>

Some of the questions ask simple things, such as my favorite color or favorite food. I'm not entirely sure why the prince would need to know such insignificant details, unless perhaps he has an aversion to, say the color black, and will weed out any girl who answers that. (Prince Peeta doesn't strike me as the kind of boy who lets much darkness into his sunny existence.)

About an hour later, my head starts to throb. I'm about halfway through the application, and the questions have progressively become more probing and more personal. I halt and set down my pen when I reach #33. Just as I've laid my head on my arm and let my eyelids droop, my bedroom door opens again, and I jerk upright.

"Were you napping?"

"Ah…no." It's not a lie, since I had barely closed my eyes when my mother came in, but the skeptical look on her face tells me she isn't buying it.

"Well, I'll cut you a break for a little while." She looks me up and down. "Put on some shoes. We're going into town."

"What? Why?"

"Because you need a new dress."

I slump down in my chair, unable to hide my displeasure. I hate shopping. Not that I have much opportunity to do it that often. Prim and I have fairly meager wardrobes. We're required to wear uniforms to school, and most of the rest of our clothes are functional rather than fashionable. Fancy is just a luxury we can't afford and I've always been okay with that. I only own two dresses. I just assumed I'd be wearing one of them when I file my application and have my picture taken.

When I grumble that exact statement under my breath, my mother tells me to be downstairs in five minutes.

"Why can't Prim just pick something out for me?" I grouse. But the flinty look of rebuke in my mother's eyes effectively silences any further protest from me.

I jam on my boots and trudge down the steps, locking eyes with Gale as I reach the landing. He's on a stepladder, fiddling with the socket in the small entryway.

"So much for the forest," I mutter. The disappointment that fills his grey eyes is palpable and his hand drops from the light fixture.

"How long can it take to find a dress, Catnip?"

I shrug and lean back against the wall to the left of the front door. "Who knows? But I didn't finish the application, so that's what I'll be doing when I get back here. It's just not in the cards today. Maybe another day."

Gale's eyes resemble storm clouds again when he glances down at me. "Another day," he echoes, but the words sound hollow.

* * *

><p>The morning that the applications are due at the Justice Building dawns bright and clear. My first thought when I stumble out of bed and glance out the window is that the sky is the same shade of blue as Prince Peeta's eyes. Then I remember that Prince Peeta is the entire reason I need to get dressed up and posed for the cameras and paraded around—all in heels. I <em>hate<em> heels. I pull the curtains closed and slump against the wall.

Prim sits up and rubs her fists over her eyes. She blinks and a giddy grin splits her face.

"Oh my gosh! It's today!" She throws back her sheets and jumps to her feet. "Are you excited? I'm excited! Oh, you're going to look so pretty, Katniss! I can't wait to see you in your dress!" She runs to our closet, yanks the dress off the hanger, and whirls about, thrusting it at me.

The dress is nothing I would have chosen on my own, and I still think it was frivolous of my mother to insist on buying something that I'm going to wear for all of a couple of hours. It's a lovely shade of blue, that's about the only thing I'll say I like about it. (My mother had insisted on blue, as she insists it will brighten my grey eyes.)

"Whoa." I hold my hands up. "I don't have to get ready just yet."

"Oh, yes, you do!" my mother sings out as she breezes into the room. "Go wash your face and brush your teeth. We've got work to do."

'Work' turns out to be my hair. My mother forces me to sit while she methodically separates my long tresses into chunks and combs and sprays each one. Then she begins weaving them into an intricate knot of braids. She tugs and she pulls and she sprays some more. I wince and grit my teeth; each yank makes my scalp scream for relief. It takes nearly an hour, but when she plucks the last pin from between her teeth and jams it above my left ear and smiles, I exhale happily.

"Are we done?"

She and Prim exchange a conspiratorial grin. "Hardly," Prim snickers, holding up a makeup palette. "We're just getting started."

"Mom, no," I protest. "I don't want that stuff painted on my face. That's not me!"

"Katniss, this isn't about what's you and what's not you. It's all about how you present yourself."

I slump down in the chair, mentally preparing myself for more torture. Prim stands to my left, then cocks her head at me, and comes around to stand on my right side. She frowns and strides over to the window, tilting her head again.

"The natural light is much better over here," she declares, nodding towards the chair. "Let's move that. Come here."

With a loud huff I stand up and drag the chair across the floor, ignoring the reproachful glare on my mother's face at the scraping sound. Prim smiles at me.

"I'm going to make you so beautiful," she promises, winking at me. Her blue eyes sparkle with happiness. It feels cruel to point out that no matter how hard she tries, I will pale in comparison with the glamorous girls that Districts 1 and 2 will offer up.

Prim prattles on blithely as she sets to work on me. Occasionally she pauses in her chatter to bark a command at me. I open and close my eyes countless times, tip my chin in about six directions, suck in my cheeks, purse and press my lips, all while sitting as still as possible. At least that is one thing I've always been good at; it's always served me well in my hunting.

After nearly an hour, Prim steps back and sighs contentedly, then tells me not to move and she rushes out of the room. She returns in a minute, a mirror clutched in her right hand. She pauses dramatically and thrusts it up in front of my face.

"Look," she orders.

I stare into the smooth reflective glass and gasp. I'm not sure how Prim has managed to do it, but she has clearly worked some kind of sorcery. I don't recognize the girl looking back at me. My grey irises sparkle like quartz stone, and Prim has lined just my top eyelashes with a soft smudge of charcoal that makes my eyes appear wider. She's blended several different shades of shadows on my eyelids, creating an effect that manages to be both demure and sexy. Whatever she did with that torture device she used on my lashes worked, because they're long and full and lush. It immediately makes me think of Prince Peeta and his eyelashes, and I blink, testing if they do indeed get tangled up when they're this long.

Prim's also done something to my skin, because it glows as if I've been in the sun for a bit. A faint rosy sheen colors my cheeks. My lips shine with a pale pink gloss.

I'm stunned. And when I finally locate my voice, buried under layers of disbelief, the only thing I mutter is, "This isn't me."

Prim sets her lips in a thin line and exchanges a knowing look with my mother. "Of course it's you, Katniss."

"You did a lovely job, Prim," I say quietly, turning my head to watch the light catch the tiny facets of shimmer in the blush my sister used on me. "But I don't look like this. It's false advertising."

My mother snorts loudly. "Please. Don't be ridiculous. Your attitude is really starting to wear thin. Every girl in every district who is eligible to be reaped is doing the exact same thing we are right now. The prince isn't stupid. He will know that the girls who want to be picked are going to do everything in their power to increase their chances."

I swallow and stare at my reflection. The girl I'm looking at is beautiful. For a brief moment, I can honestly say that there might be a chance that Prince Peeta would study my portrait and see something there that he likes. But that thought dims quickly, and I'm back to the nagging notion that even if he were to choose me, the girl that the photographer will capture on camera at the Justice Building in just a few hours will not be the one who would arrive in his palace. The other girls probably know how to coil their hair, and apply makeup, and play up their best features, without the help of their sisters or mothers.

"Kat, I really didn't do that much," Prim says quietly, placing a hand on my shoulder. I meet her big blue eyes in the mirror. "You look natural. You're much prettier than you give yourself credit for." I felt her hand squeeze me. "C'mon, let's get you dressed."

I close my eyes and nod numbly, shuffling towards my bed, where my mother has laid out the dress. My cheeks flood with heat when I see the undergarments she's also arranged there.

"You know they're not going to see what's under my dress," I grumble, glaring at the cream-colored scraps of lace.

"It makes you feel even prettier," she replies, with a wave of her hand.

I scowl and wait for her and Prim to make their exit. When neither makes a move to leave, I plant my hands on my hips and narrow my eyes.

"I can manage to dress myself."

My mother shakes her head. "You'll ruin your hair if—"

"Mom. We can at least let her put on the underwear in privacy." Prim grabs our mother's hand and urges her towards the door. Sticking my tongue out at my mother's retreating form, I catch the beginnings of a smile tugging up Prim's lips, and she shakes her head at me as she quietly closes the door.

My fingers are clumsy as I undo the bow on my nightgown and the soft cotton swishes to the floor. I shudder reflexively and feel my nipples stiffen into buds. Impulsively, I walk over to the mirror and gaze at myself again. Biting my lip, I quickly release it, needing to be careful not to ruin Prim's handiwork. I take a moment to let my eyes roam up and down my half nude body, drumming my fingers against my pelvic bone.

My boobs aren't huge, and I'm not so naïve or inexperienced to know that guys like big breasts. I've definitely caught Gale leering at the chests of some of the better-endowed girls in 12. But I suppose my breasts are nice enough—at least they're symmetrical and they're pretty perky. As I press my palms over them, they fit easily within my grasp, but not with too much room to spare. I knead them gently, and wonder what it might feel like for someone other than me to touch them like this. Would it feel different?

That thought makes my cheeks burn anew. _Damn. What is wrong with me?_

Hastily, I grab for the bra and shove my arms through the straps. I adjust the cups in place and reach around to close the clasp then trade my practical cotton underwear for the tiny pair of panties.

Well crap. My mother was right. The lacy lingerie has an immediate effect on me. I do feel prettier, sexier almost—and I have never ever_ ever_ in my life seen myself as sexy. And I'm pretty sure that no one else would ever use that adjective to describe me either. I think about the girls in the district who always seem to attract the attention of boys—girls like Madge Undersee. Is this part of their secret, part of what fuels their self-confidence?

The notion that I'm to be courted in the very near future seeps into the forefront of my mind, like sinister fog clouding my normal thoughts. I can't allow myself to keep thinking like this, so I pluck the dress from my bed, slide the zipper down, and step into it just as there's a sharp knock on the door. I've barely grunted out a "yeah," when my mother and Prim barge back into the room.

My mother smiles as she studies me. "Let me get that zipper for you," she says quietly, motioning for me to turn around. I suck in a breath as the teeth catch and she zippers me up. It's tight, but not constricting, accentuating my slender waist and the slight curve of my hips. I tug at the bodice, a little uncomfortable with the dip in the neckline that lures eyes to my cleavage, but my mother swats at my hand.

"Relax, dear. It's meant to lie like that."

"Oh my gosh, Katniss!" Prim gushes, clapping her hands together in delight. "It's perfect on you. You look so beautiful."

I offer her and my mother a tiny smile, until I see the heels my mother has produced from behind her back. I heave a loud sigh, and bid my poor feet a silent apology.

* * *

><p>We arrive at the Justice Building largely without incidence. I only wobble on my heels a few times, and just once do I catch one of them on a cobblestone in the main square. Fortunately Prim's reflexes are nearly as sharp as my own, and she grabs my elbow to steady me before I can pitch face first into the street. They're also not hurting my feet as much as I expected them to, though I imagine the longer I wear them, the worse it will get.<p>

A large crowd has assembled outside the massive white-brick edifice, nearly all of which is young men. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that the male population of 12 would be gathered here. Every eligible female of reaping age will be parading past them, and since courting can begin almost immediately after the three tributes are announced, what better way to get a glimpse of who is about to become available.

Of course there have always been rumors, names whispered barely a breath apart, suggesting that some couples have not waited for the reaping and have been carrying on illicit courtships prior to this. It's incredibly risky to do such a thing. The punishments for being caught are extreme, and evidence of a sexual relationship could lead to execution. I can only recall one couple that was dumb enough to find themselves pregnant and who didn't take care of things before her condition became obvious. Both were sentenced to public flogging, and the entire district was forced to assemble and watch. He received his fifty lashes first, but when it came time for her to be bound to the post, he had staggered back to the platform and insisted on taking her lashings for her. Her screams of protest were ignored, and after fifty more cracks of the whip, his listless body was dragged away, bloodied and barely twitching. He died two days later of his injuries. Four months later, she delivered a healthy baby boy and within hours of his birth, she promptly slit her wrists in the bathtub. I never heard what became of the baby.

"Gracious!" my mother exclaims, scanning the sea of masculine heads. "Look at all these boys, Primrose!"

"Mom!" Prim blushes. She pleads with me with her eyes.

"She's 12, Mom," I reply, locking gazes with my mother.

"It's never too soon to make a good impression, that's all," she sniffs in response.

Prim grips my hand tightly and tugs me towards the front steps. "Let's go inside."

As we mount the stairs, I glance to my left and my eyes sweep the crowd one more time. I pause when they land on a familiar pair of grey irises. I can't say I'm surprised to see Gale here. He's no different than the rest of the boys, and I imagine he's anxious to find a girl to settle down with. As he makes eye contact with me, his eyes crinkle with smile and his mouth curves upward. He gives a slight nod of his head and his lips part as he mouths something to me. I suck at lip reading, and I can only shake my head in return, unable to decode what he's trying to say. His lips twist and he begins to repeat himself, but Prim gives my hand a yank and I follow her, my mother close on our heels.

As we reach the door, I hold out my arm for the Peacekeeper and wait for the shrill chirp of the scanner as it passes over the tracker buried beneath the skin, just below the crook of my elbow. Prim and my mother do the same. Our identities are confirmed, and then a second Peacekeeper commands us to stand still so he can wave a wand along each of our limbs while a female Peacekeeper pats us down. As she finishes the security clearance, she orders us to move to the left and jerks her head to the doors behind her.

The Justice Building is an imposing, sterile place. I've only been inside it once, years ago when I accompanied my parents to file my father's claim against the mining company. All I remember about it were the stark white walls, unadorned, save for a portrait of the royal family and a plaque listing all the men who have served as mayor of District 12.

I step inside, my heels clicking quietly on the polished floor. I'm sure on any other day the sound would reverberate through the cavernous space, but today there is too much bustle, too much excited chatter buzzing through the room. Everywhere I look, girls are primping and adjusting, smiling into handheld mirrors, tousling their curls, and reapplying lipstick, while their mothers fuss over them. I look up at the vaulted ceiling, where the sunlight streaming down through the skylights gives everything beneath it a gilded glow.

"You'll need to be getting in line, miss," a curt voice commands. I swivel my head and meet the unfriendly eyes of another Peacekeeper. I glance around him and see that there are five different lines, each leading to a long table. Each table is manned by a cluster of stern-looking women.

"Does it matter which line?" I ask.

He glares at me coldly and points to a screen above the table directly in front of us that reads "K-O." My eyes sweep to the left, and I see "A-E" and "F-J." Alphabetical.

My mother starts to follow me, and the Peacekeeper's arm shoots out, halting her movement.

"She must file her papers alone and complete her interview alone," he rasps, and then directs my mother and Prim to an area in the southernmost corner of the room. Before they walk away, Prim gathers me into a tight hug, much to my mother's chagrin and hushed warning that my sister is wrinkling my dress. When Prim releases me, my mother thrusts my application into my grasp, and then she gently cups my cheek and holds my gaze.

"Katniss, this is your future. Don't sell yourself short. You are a beautiful girl and you have just as much to offer the prince as any other girl."

Her words echo Gale's, and there's such sincerity in her voice that I almost believe her myself. I muster a weak smile and nod, and she brushes her thumb under my left eye, bringing the tip back to show me the eyelash.

"Now you're perfect. Go."

It feels like an eternity that I wait my turn, inching forward slowly as an hour ticks by. In the meantime, I peer up at the portraits on the walls. They've been updated since the last time I'd been here, and there is one new addition—a solo painting of Prince Peeta. In it, he sits on an intricately carved throne, and he's dressed in all white. It strikes me that it's very similar to the way he appeared on the _Capitol Report_ just a few short days ago. His face is stoic, serious, but there's a kindness in his cerulean eyes that softens his entire visage. Try as I might to avoid the lure of it, I find myself periodically staring at his picture and getting lost in those impossibly blue orbs.

"Next!"

I stiffen as I realize that "next" is me. With a deep breath, I straighten my posture and approach the table.

"Name."

"Katniss Everdeen."

The woman touches a flat screen on the table and she taps it several times with her index finger. She spins the screen to face me and orders me to press each of my fingers on the surface of the tablet. Obediently, I do as she asks, and once my prints have been recorded, a chime precedes the screen fading to black, and then my name appears in large bold print.

"Application."

I hope I'm the only one who notices the slight tremor to my hand as I place it down and slide it across the table. A second woman snatches the packet and begins to scan each page with some kind of device.

"Before we take your photograph, Miss Everdeen, we're going to need to ask you a few personal questions. When was the date of your last physical?"

I wrinkle my nose, as I try to remember what I wrote on the application. "Um…it was around my birthday. So…May 8th or so?"

"You're aware that your medical records will be made available to palace officials if you are reaped. And if necessary you may be required to undergo further physical examination."

"Uh, yes, I am aware. I read the application."

Her eyes narrow and her tone becomes frostier as she bluntly asks me the date of my last menstrual cycle. When I don't answer right away, she gives me a condescending smirk and repeats the question.

"When it started…or when it ended?" I stammer.

She sighs, her expression clearly indicating she thinks I'm daft. "Let's try this again, Miss Everdeen. When did your last menstrual cycle begin?"

"A week ago Tuesday," I reply quickly, having doing the math as I was attempting to decipher what she was asking.

"And how long do they last?"

"Four or five days."

"Are they regular, your cycles?"

I hesitate. Regular is not an adjective that I'd use to describe them. I've only been getting my period for two years now. My mother had told me that I came from a long line of late bloomers, and she had been right. At first, things had been erratic, but for the past three months, I've noticed a more predictable pattern starting to take place.

"They have been," I say cautiously, anticipating a follow-up question, but the woman taps her screen and then looks directly at me.

"You're a virgin, Miss Everdeen?"

I was fully prepared for them to ask that question, but it still catches me by surprise and has me blushing furiously. I nod the affirmative and she taps the screen once more.

"And you are aware that your signature on your application, and your prints that are now on file are your confirmation of that fact?"

I nod again.

"And you're aware that if at any time your virginity comes into question or it is revealed that you have been dishonest about your status, the penalty for such treason is execution?"

Though I have nothing to hide, having never kissed a boy, let alone done anything even remotely intimate with one, my stomach twists. I swallow as I voice my acknowledgment.

The third woman picks up a small device of some kind and motions towards the camera. "Very well, Miss Everdeen. Please step to your right in front of the white screen."

I do as I'm told, nervously smoothing down the waist and skirt of my dress. I run my tongue over my teeth, not certain how much of the lipstick Prim applied remains on my mouth but wanting to be sure none of it has wound up marring my smile. It needs all the help it can get.

The photographer issues command after command at me, and I try to follow along, turning my body and angling my neck as best I can, but she quickly becomes frustrated with my posture or positioning or both. She plants her hands on either side of my jaw and forces me to move my head into the pose she has been striving for, then she orders me not to move. Her demeanor shifts instantly as she readies the camera. Her tone is thick with artificial sweetness when she tells me to look straight ahead and smile. I feel wooden and stiff and fake, and I try to coax my mind to go to a place that makes me happy, to extract a more naturally happy expression on my face. I think about leaving here and going to the meadow, how wonderful the grass will feel beneath my bare toes, how warm the abundant sunshine will feel on my skin, and I smile broadly, a delicious calm relaxing my muscles. I hear a series of clicks, and the photographer gives me a toothy grin.

"That was perfect, Miss Everdeen. Just lovely."

The first woman ushers me away from the screen and waves a scanner over my arm, then presses a button on the wand, declaring that I am done and my application is complete. She reminds me that the results of the Reaping will be televised one week from today.

But when she wishes me luck and bids me goodbye, she sounds anything but genuine.


	3. Chapter 3-The Reaping

**_Author's Note—_**_Thank you so much for the incredible response to this story so far. I am really thrilled that so many people are excited for it. I have been working on my S2SL amidst my beta work, so I'm sorry for the delay in getting this chapter ready. _

_If you haven't yet done so, and you'd like to receive a collection of some super sexy stories right in time for Valentine's Day, visit the Tumblr page for S2SL and donate to the cause. Streetlightlove does an amazing job with this charity, and she has some prizes in store this year. Minimum donation is $10. There are already some teasers up on the page, mine included. _

_Thanks as always to ILoVeRynMar for being there every step of the way and talking through every detail with me. ILY! All mistakes are mine. _

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><p><em><strong>~*~Chapter 3-The Reaping~*~<strong>_

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><p>On the night of the Reaping, Prim can hardly sit still all throughout dinner. She keeps stealing glances at the clock and fidgeting in her seat. She barely touches her vegetables (though that's nothing new), and I'm pretty sure she sweeps the rest of her mutton to the cat. When she asks to be excused, she scampers right into the living room and nestles into a corner of the couch, eyes glued to the darkened television set.<p>

"You might try turning it on, Little Duck," I call as I clear the table and carry the stack of dishes to the kitchen. I hear my mother murmuring to Prim, and seconds later the noise from the television filters in from the other room. I turn on the faucet and begin scrubbing at the roasting pan.

"Nervous?"

I glance over my shoulder to see my father loitering in the doorway. He limps towards me and extends a hand. I pass him the dripping pan and he snags the dishtowel to start drying.

He nods to the window at the purpling twilight. "It's going to rain."

I bump his hip playfully as I dunk a fistful of utensils into the soapy water and swish them around. "You know you could make quite a career in the Capitol with your weather forecasting." My father has long complained that a change in the weather—precipitation mostly, rain in summer, snow in the winter—spurs more of an ache than usual where his artificial legs attach to the stumps of his knees. Occasionally the pain is so bad that he swallows his pride and drags out his wheelchair.

"We could use a good drenching. It's been weeks since we had rain." He clears his throat. "So are you? Nervous, that is?"

"No." I dry my hands on my pants and drain the sink. Then I turn and face him fully. "I mean, not really, I guess. I'm not nervous about the Reaping."

"No?"

"Dad, come on. I'm not getting chosen. I don't know why everyone seems so fixated on me getting reaped. The odds are not in my favor."

"What if I told you that I was."

"Was what?"

"I'm nervous." He smiles, almost shyly, and I gape at him, waiting for him to proffer an explanation. He reaches for my hand and strokes it gently. "You see, kitten, I think you have far more to offer than you give yourself credit for. I wouldn't be at all surprised if the prince didn't take one look at your photo and see something special there. And I'm sure the answers on your application were thoughtful and honest. I expect nothing less from you."

I shrug and he lifts my chin with his other hand. His grey eyes mirror mine, and there's a solemnity in them that I haven't seen in quite some time.

"Katniss, you know that no matter what happens tonight, there's going to be a time when I'm going to have to let you go. Some young man is going to come knocking on our door and he's going to want to take you from me."

"Dad." I hear the waver in my voice and feel my throat prickling.

His lips seem to quake too as he continues to smile. "I just want you to know that whoever that boy is, he'd better be damn sure he deserves you before he asks me that question."

I throw my arms around his neck and squeeze him fiercely. He hugs me back and we don't move for several moments. There's a strange energy between us, because he's right of course.

"No matter what, you're always my little girl, you hear me?" he murmurs against the crown of my head. I nod and try, as discreetly as possible, to wipe a tear from my eye before he can see how his show of emotion has affected me.

"Katniss! It's starting!" Prim shrieks. Sure enough, a half a second later the blaring strains of the _Capitol Report_ theme become audible. My father gives me one more brief squeeze and releases me.

"C'mon, kitten. Let's go watch the spectacle." He winks at me, and together we go to join my mother and Prim in the living room just as the royal seal fades and Caesar Flickerman looms on the screen. He's still favoring the purple hair, but it seems everywhere else he's gone gold for the occasion. His bronzed skin glitters, making his teeth gleam an even more unnatural shade of white, and he wears a satiny gold suit that catches the light with each step he takes.

"Good evening, Panem," he begins. Gone is the ebullient giddiness from two weeks earlier; in its place is a more reserved excitement. His dark eyes dance and he clasps his hands together as he says, "Welcome to the _Capitol Report._ I don't think I have to tell anyone who's watching just how monumental this evening is going to be. Because tonight—" he pauses dramatically, "tonight we will be revealing the identities of the 36 lucky ladies who have been reaped. Among the names and photos you'll see tonight will be the young woman who will rise above the others and capture the heart of our beloved Prince Peeta. Which one will she be?" He grins and throws his head back in his signature cackle. "We'll find out shortly. But first…"

As he did on the last _Report_, he brings out King Wheaton and Queen Aster. The king and Caesar engage in some genial banter. Then Caesar asks about the upcoming mayoral appointments. I twirl a lock of my hair around my index finger, staring at Queen Aster sitting beside her husband so poised, so regal.

"Do you remember when Queen Aster was crowned?" I ask, glancing between my parents. My father looks a little sheepish as he meets my mother's eyes and half-smiles.

"Oh, I do. Very well. Aster was easily the most beautiful girl in that Reaping. Every boy I knew thought so, even those of us who were too young to fully appreciate her other assets."

My mother sidles closer to him on the couch and places a hand on his forearm. "Oh, so you had a thing for older women when you were a teenage boy?"

My father grins and hauls her into his lap, tickling her ribs. "Perhaps. But it's a good thing for you that I settled for a younger one. Were you even out of your crib for Aster's reaping?"

My sister and I exchange a look, and she giggles. When Prim and I were younger, we were often embarrassed by our parents' frequent displays of affection. They were always holding hands or stealing quick kisses, and there were many a night where I was confused by the sounds coming through the thin walls, until I was old enough to know what it was that a man and a woman do in their marriage bed. Since my father's accident, there's been far less playfulness between them. I hadn't realized how much I missed it now that I'm seeing it tonight.

Unexpectedly my chest tightens and a profound sense of sadness seizes me. Sitting here with my parents and sister, enjoying the familiarity and togetherness, only serves to remind me of how little time I have left in their company. I reach over and tug Prim towards me. She nestles into my side and whispers, "I'm so nervous for you!"

I lean my cheek on her head and sigh. "It will be okay, Little Duck. It'll all work out."

Caesar concludes his mundane interview with the king, and they cut away to a series of reports from each of the districts that detail their respective plans for celebrating their Reaped. I'm not expecting grand things from 12, but at least we should have a nice feast to look forward to. It's tradition for the royal family to provide all the food, as a gesture of goodwill and thanks. The Reaped girls, however, won't see a bit of it. The celebrations are held after they've departed. Far better things will await them in the palace, I'm sure.

The screen goes dark. The seal of Panem slowly materializes, and then morphs into the crest of the House of Mellark while the anthem plays. Caesar reappears. He's still accompanied by the king and queen—and now Prince Peeta is with them. He's dressed all in white again, the gold handkerchief peering out from his breast pocket. His grin is radiant, and he looks completely at ease seated beside his mother, joking comfortably with Caesar, as if they're old friends.

Next to me Prim sighs, and she nudges an elbow into my ribs. "So handsome," she murmurs.

I press my lips together, ignoring the faint fluttering in my stomach, and shrug feigned indifference.

"…seen your choices, obviously, but I imagine you're anxious to see the faces of the rest of the lovely girls who will be joining your twelve selections, no?" Caesar prattles on, and I narrow my eyes, vowing to listen more carefully and not get distracted by those enchanting blue eyes or that charismatic smile.

"I am, Caesar. I've been waiting for this moment for a long time. I'm—" he lowers his eyes for a moment, and when he looks up again, he gazes right into the camera. "I'm ready to find the girl who I'll give my heart to. And the crown, of course," he adds, as if in afterthought.

I can practically hear the collective sigh throughout all of Panem, as every girl who submitted an application is likely imagining that his words are directed at her and his charming grin is for her alone. Lucky for me, I'm not that gullible, even if my heart gives a little start at the way his lips curve and his jaw flexes.

"Well then, what are we waiting for?" Caesar crows. Vibrant beams of color flash wildly before the lighting dims and a lone spotlight shines on Prince Peeta.

Caesar explains that the girls will be revealed in a predetermined order, starting with the lowest numbered districts and ending with those reaped from 12. I roll my eyes. Typical. Twelve comes last for everything—why would this be any different? He also reminds viewers that there will be no designation among the three reaped girls from each district. The king and queen's choice, the prince's choice, and the randomly drawn tribute will all be revealed on equal footing, alphabetically by last name.

"Are you ready, Prince Peeta?" Caesar enunciates the last syllable of the prince's name with an exaggerated bravado, and when Prince Peeta nods, Caesar turns to King Wheaton and Queen Aster. "And Mom and Dad," he drawls, winking, "are _you_ ready?"

I snort. Only Caesar Flickerman could get away with addressing the king and queen in such a casual manner. But then I catch sight of King Wheaton's face as he turns to look at Prince Peeta. Watching him smile at the prince, he really does just appear to be a doting father who's excited for his son. It makes me smile in turn.

"We are as anxious as Peeta is to welcome these young ladies into our home," Queen Aster says diplomatically, aiming a dazzling smile at the camera.

"And to eventually welcome one of them into our family," King Wheaton adds.

"Oh, get on with it!" Prim cries. My parents both snicker. The fluttering in my stomach quickens, and I find myself repeatedly clenching and unclenching a fist to expend some of my nervous energy.

"From District 1…Cashmere Sheridan."

A striking blonde's photo fills the screen, and I notice they keep a small image of Prince Peeta in the upper right hand corner so the audience can gauge his reaction to each girl as she is announced.

"Glimmer Snow."

Another gorgeous blonde, all white teeth and red lips.

"And finally, Emerald Sterling."

No surprise, she's blonde. And beautiful.

"How's he going to tell those three apart?" my mother murmurs under her breath.

I study the three portraits displayed on the screen. I'm having trouble myself discerning among the tanned skin and flowing blonde locks, and the only marked difference I can spot so far is the one named Glimmer has green eyes. Before I can scrutinize them any further, the pictures vanish and the camera trains on Caesar and the royal family.

"Well, well, well, Prince Peeta—" Caesar does that thing again, where he emphasizes the last syllable of the prince's name, "what do you think of your first three ladies?"

If Caesar is expecting him to show any blatant favoritism, Prince Peeta disappoints, because he keeps his smile steady and merely replies that he looks forward to getting to know Cashmere, Glimmer, and Emerald better. He says each of their names with the same affect—like his expression, his voice hints at nothing.

Caesar's eyes twinkle and he makes a comment about District 1 and patenting a mold, which I think is an allusion to the similarity among the three girls so I snicker audibly, but no one else in the room laughs. On the television, they're preparing to announce the girls from District 2.

"Why don't they send people to the houses of the reaped girls. You know, to get their reactions?" I ask.

My mother gives me a look as if I've sprouted a second head. "The girls are introduced formally when their escorts arrive to take them to the palace. It's televised live." She gives me a patronizing little smile. "After all, Katniss, these girls had no idea they were the ones who were being reaped. They can't have a camera crew showing up at their door if they weren't expecting them. What if they weren't presentable?"

I almost fire back a snotty remark about how Prince Peeta should know what he's going to wake up beside every morning for the rest of his life, but I stop myself. I'm guessing natural is a foreign thing to those who live in 1, 2, and even 4. Perhaps some of these girls really do go to sleep in full makeup. They probably sleep in frilly nightgowns too. I think about the fancy lingerie my mother had me wear under my dress the other day and how it made me feel. I hope no one notices the slight blush I feel spreading across my cheeks.

"It's not hard to tell which girl was the random selection here," my mother says, commanding my attention back to the screen and the pictures of the three girls from District 2. The first two are both as stunning as the girls from 1. Clove is a brunette, with angular features and big brown eyes, and her expression exudes confidence and pride, and something else—maybe arrogance? Enobaria is more exotic, with flawless skin the color of milk chocolate. Her glossy black hair falls like an unspooled bolt of silk. Her dark eyes are mysterious, and she too looks proud, as if she knows how beautiful she is.

The third girl, Aliyah, can only be described as plain. There's nothing distinct about her features, nothing to make her stand out from the others. Even her smile seems bland. Tight-lipped, it seems to suggest she's hiding something.

"Maybe she's got a great personality," I volunteer. "And she'll win the prince over with her humor and her charm." But even I don't sound that convinced by my halfhearted defense of poor Aliyah, and my mother and Prim say nothing to warrant continuing a debate on the issue. I fall silent and let the two of them prattle on as more girls are announced, and Prince Peeta continues to aim that incandescent grin at the camera with each subsequent reveal. I wonder if that chiseled jaw is hurting him yet.

By District 11, I'm stifling yawn after yawn and craving the comfort of my sheets. I must actually nod off for a minute or two, because a sharp jab to my ribs from Prim jerks me upright just as the photos of 11's girls fade from the screen.

"It's almost time!"

I yawn again and give a lazy smile. "Yep. Almost time for this nonsense to be over and for us to go to bed."

"Shhhh!" my mother hisses. "We're next."

I fight the compulsion to roll my eyes at her use of the collective "we," when she means our district, but I decide to let it slide. Her fun is about to come to an end, so why spoil the last waning moments of it?

"And now, finally, from District 12—"

I inhale a shallow breath and inexplicably my stomach knots and my pulse stutters.

"Delilah Cartwright."

"Delly!" Prim squeals. "It's Delly!"

Delly. I shake my head in awe at the sweet, smiling face on the screen. I've known Delly since we were five, and she's one of the nicest—

My thoughts are shattered by ear-piercing shrieks and I'm aware of Prim vaulting to her feet and yanking my palm out of my lap. Suddenly I'm staring at my own picture. I never heard Caesar say my name, but there I am on the screen, with my name displayed beneath my photo, looking like some glamorous facsimile of myself. I feel my jaw unhinge and my heart gallops.

Prim continues to scream and jump around, her blonde braids like ropes lancing through the air. My mother crosses the room and crushes me to her.

"I knew you had as good a chance as any of them. I'm so proud of you, Katniss." She hugs me fiercely. Though my limbs feel like lead and I'm still effectively stunned, I manage to return her embrace as best as I can. All of a sudden, she recoils and spins to look at the television, frowning at what she sees.

"Who was the third girl?" she asks my father. "Did you see?"

He nods from his armchair. "Margaret Undersee."

My mother smirks, and her smile hints at her vindication that she was right about Madge being reaped. But before she can utter a word, the phone rings.

"Everdeen residence," she chirps, and pauses. "Hello, Hazelle…I know, isn't it exciting? She's a little shell-shocked, I think, but…"

I startle when I feel my hand squeezed gently. My father leans forward in his chair, worry lines creasing his forehead.

"You okay, kitten?"

"This is real, isn't it?" I reply, my eyes flitting between my mother, who can barely restrain her elation as she chatters away to Gale's mother, and to Prim, who's now perched on the edge of the couch, glued to the screen once more. Prince Peeta and the king and queen are gone, and Plutarch Heavensbee has joined Caesar to speculate on the odds of each reaped girl. It doesn't surprise me to hear Plutarch declare the early favorites to be Glimmer, Cashmere, and Madge. Perhaps the prince does have a secret thing for blondes.

I'm also not surprised to see my name near the bottom of the list when the rest of the odds are displayed. I can't connect names and faces to some of the other girls are who are ranked beneath me, other than that Aliyah from 2 and Delly. I should have been paying closer attention. But it's not like I expected any of this.

Caesar concludes the_ Report_ with a brief monologue informing the viewers where the Reaping goes from here. He reveals that they will be broadcasting live feeds two days from now as all the selected girls depart their home districts for the Palace of Panem.

A soft puff escapes my lips. Two days? I only have two days left with my family, two days left to be ordinary Katniss Everdeen. And truly, those two days are more like one day, since actually departing from 12 will happen on the second of the days, and early.

My father squeezes my hand again. "Why don't you call it a night? This might be the last peaceful evening you have for quite some time." He flicks off the television as the _Capitol Report_ end credits begin to roll.

"Your father is right." My mother places her hand over the phone's receiver. She's on her fourth phone call. "Someone from the palace will be here bright and early tomorrow. You should get your rest."

I shake my head. "I need some fresh air. I think I'll sit outside for a little while, if that's okay."

My parents exchange a glance, and my mother shrugs dismissively before turning her attention back to her phone call. My father looks pensive.

"You'll stay in the yard? No wandering off?" I know he's thinking I'm contemplating a run for the meadow, but even I'm not willing to risk curfew to venture out beyond the district limits this late at night.

"I just need to clear my head, Dad. I'll be right out back. Promise."

The evening air has a mild bite to it. Summer may be quickly approaching, but the nights can get quite cold in 12. I wrap my arms around myself and walk idly around our small backyard, gazing up at the inky sky. The stars wink at me, each one beckoning me, as if wanting to share a secret. I imagine that the night sky is one thing that cannot possibly look too different wherever you are in Panem. I suppose that should I find myself getting homesick at the palace, I can slip outside and allow the stars to offer me comfort.

A rustling noise startles me. I listen carefully, hearing little more than Lady's soft bleats from where she rests in her pen and the whisper of the gentle night breeze. Then the noise comes again, followed by a sharp hiss that sounds a lot like my name and the tread of footsteps.

"Catnip," it hisses again, and from the murky shadows at the edge of our yard Gale emerges.

"Gale! What are you doing here? It's after curfew!"

"I had to see you," he replies in a hoarse whisper. The scant moonlight casts his face in a greyish glow, making his eyes seem fathomless. He steps towards me, a twig snapping underfoot as he does.

"I overheard my mother on the phone with your mother. I had to be sure you were okay."

I blink. "Why wouldn't I be okay?"

He makes a little scoffing noise. "I don't know, Katniss, maybe because you were just reaped?"

"Oh, that." I shrug. "I guess it still hasn't hit me." A gust of wind whips up, and I shiver. Gale moves closer, placing his hands on my upper arms.

"Why are you out here like this? You'll catch cold." He rubs his hands up and down my bare arms, staring down at me.

"I was only planning on being out here for a minute," I say, shaking out of his grasp. "I should go back inside."

"Katniss, wait!" he implores, grabbing my elbow. "I need to talk—"

"Katniss?" My father's voice lifts from the back door. "Are you alright? I heard voices."

I shoot Gale a look, pleading with him with my eyes to retreat, but he remains beside me, and I know my father sees him as he steps outside.

"Gale," he says, mild surprise registering on his face.

"Hello, Mr. Everdeen," says Gale politely.

My father's eyes flicker from Gale to me. "It's after curfew. You know you shouldn't be here, right?"

Gale clears his throat. "I just had to be sure Katniss was okay. I heard my mother talking to your wife, and from my mother's reaction it sounded as if Katniss was in distress."

"She was a little stunned at first, but that's to be expected." He smiles at me before turning back to Gale. "We appreciate your concern. But it's best you get home, son. There are Peacekeepers everywhere tonight, and security around this part of the district will likely be stricter than usual now."

Though Gale hesitates and locks eyes with me again, he sighs and murmurs his compliance. He leaves, but not before he grabs me, crushes me into a quick hug, and whispers, "I told you that you sell yourself short."

I watch him dissolve into the shadows, until I feel my father's hand on the small of my back, and wordlessly, he ushers me back inside.

* * *

><p>Sleep doesn't come easily once I'm lying in bed.<p>

I'm staring at the ceiling, my body and mind still too restless to find the peace I need to slip under. I wonder how well I'll sleep in the palace. I've never slept away from home before, nor have I ever gone to bed without Prim's steady breathing and occasional snores as white noise. Knowing that in less than 48 hours I'll be spending my nights in a strange bed, in an unfamiliar place, causes me to turn on my side to study the shadowy form of my sleeping sister. Will I have my own room in the palace? Or will I be quartered with other girls? Perhaps they put girls from the same district together, and I'll have to room with Delly and Madge. I suppose that wouldn't be awful—neither girl is disagreeable. Madge has even been friendly to me at times. And Delly is nice to everyone.

I hear Prim whisper into the darkness, "You know what this means, right?"

"It means you're going to be talking to the walls at night in a few days."

Prim snickers and she props herself up on one elbow and stares at me. In the dim moonlight, her skin is nearly translucent and her eyes glint like marble. "It means he chose you, Katniss."

"Don't be ridiculous, Prim," I scoff.

"I'm not being ridiculous. It's logic. Think about it. Madge was obviously the queen's choice. Her father is the mayor of 12 and her mother was in the same Reaping class as Queen Aster." Prim pauses. "And _they_ wouldn't have chosen Delly."

Delly's father is a shoemaker, keeping a shop in the merchant sector of 12. While her family is certainly more successful than others around here, they're not nearly as wealthy as Madge's. Delly doesn't have the same pedigree as Madge, but of course, neither do I.

"Maybe the queen has a thing for shoes," I joke, before the soft impact of a pillow hits my face and ricochets to the floor.

"I'm serious!" Prim says, sounding indignant. "It makes perfect sense. The king and queen chose Madge, Delly was the random draw, and that leaves Prince Peeta having chosen _you_, Katniss."

Even as I know her logic is faulty, I can't prevent the little flip my stomach does. What I can't figure out is if the somersaults are because I'm pleased that the prince could want me, or because I'm terrified at the prospect that he does.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you for reading! I hope to have Chapter 4 up within the next few weeks, as well as a couple of other updates.<em>


	4. Chapter 4-The Departure

_**Author's Note**—I'm so happy that so many of you are enjoying this story so far. Thank you for the reviews and PMs. _

_Many thanks, as always, to my rock iLoVeRynMar. She is kind enough to not only read and support me with all my stories, but she posts my things to her Tumblr page (thegirlonpeetamellark), and I'm so grateful for her friendship. All mistakes are my own._

_This weekend (2/14/15) marks the release of the S2SL collection. I've submitted a one-shot called Highland Fling, betaed several super hot submissions, and I have a story up for auction as well. Please consider donating to an excellent cause, minimum donation of $10. There are many, many stories and arts from some of the best writers in this fandom. _

* * *

><p><em><strong>~*~Chapter 4-The Departure~*~<strong>_

The next morning, the pounding on the door comes earlier than any of us could have expected. Prim groans and burrows further under her covers. I take a deep breath and stare up at the ceiling, absorbing each thump from the knocking, until I roll on my side to peer out the window. The sky is still dusky, ribbons of gold and red starting to unfurl across the indigo tableau, and the birdsong is sparse, not yet in full chorus.

I didn't sleep well at all—I couldn't have gotten more than a couple of hours, stitched together in 20- or 30-minute swatches. I don't feel as listless and tired as I should, but I know the lack of sleep will catch up with me eventually.

"Knock, knock!" The shrill voice sings out from the front stoop. "Let's open the door, shall we?"

That jars Prim and she lurches up, rubbing her eyes, her mouth stretching in a yawn that contorts into a wide smile. "They're here, Katniss! This is real! This is happening!" She leaps off the bed, grabs her robe from the closet, and rushes out of the room.

I do have to smile at how excited she is for me, but I wonder how she's going to cope when it's just her here with my parents, for however long I last in the palace. I suppose Prim has always been better at adapting to change than I have. She's not old enough to be cynical yet.

The din of voices rise, and moments later I hear movement on the stairs before a sharp rap comes on my partially closed bedroom door.

"Lady Katniss! Are you decent?"

I glance down at my simple nightshift and drag a hand through my gnarled locks. What constitutes decent? And why is she addressing me like that?

The door swings fully open and a woman struts into my room. In spite of myself, I can't keep from gawking at her. I've never seen anyone from the Capitol up close before. I knew that people who live there were different from the rest of us, but to see it in person is eye-opening.

She scrutinizes me, her bright pink lips twisting scornfully. She shakes her head and clucks her tongue and clicks her impossibly long fingernails against her wide metallic belt.

"Oh no, no, no!" she sings out. I wrinkle my nose, because what does she expect from me, bursting into my home at the crack of dawn? She steps forward and seizes my shoulders. "Wipe that scowl right off your face, my dear. Frowning causes wrinkles. And if you have a dressing gown, you should put it on before the others arrive."

"A dressing gown?"

"A robe," she says simply. I grab it from the back of my desk chair, thinking she could have just called it that in the first place, and I slip it on, cinching it tightly before facing the woman again. She smiles broadly and reveals two rows of gleaming white teeth, teeth so white they are practically fluorescent. "Lady Katniss, I'm Effie Trinket, your royal escort." She extends her manicured hand towards me and I accept it gingerly.

"Uh, pleased to meet you," I offer.

She takes a step back, cocking her head at me as she carefully studies my face. Then she beams widely.

"My goodness, your beautification expert is going to love this skin," she enthuses. "It's flawless. I can only imagine once she gets some makeup on you and…"

She starts to prattle on about color palettes and shimmer and how someone called Octavia is going to make me glow. I nod politely; the phrases spewing from her shocking pink lips are little more than gibberish to me. When she finally pauses to take a breath, she claps her hands and her violet eyes gleam.

"Today is a big, big, big day. From this moment on, Lady Katniss—"

"Can I ask you a question?"

She exhales, a quick puff pursing her lips, visibly irritated that I've interrupted her, much less that I've dared to pose an inquiry, but she gives me a patronizing little smirk and motions for me to go ahead and ask my question.

"Why do you keep calling me "lady"?"

For a second, Effie looks at me aghast. Then she straightens her shoulders and gives another supercilious smirk.

"Mr. Crane will be up momentarily, once he is finished with your parents, and he will go over the legalities and the rules with you. You are welcome to query him, if you are so curious as to formalities. But I for one would be tickled pink to be addressed with such a distinguished title, and_ I_ would not question it."

I don't really appreciate the condescending way she speaks to me, as if I'm some kind of ignorant toddler instead of a girl of sixteen, but I chalk up her snooty behavior to being a product of her class. I fight the urge to stick my tongue out at her when she does a cursory scan of my bedroom; I know better than to ask her why she's looking around.

Just then, my mother appears in the doorway, a man at her side.

"Lady Katniss, this is Seneca Crane, the royal Chancellor."

Seneca Crane isn't a very large man, but he commands a presence solely from the manner of his appearance. I'm struck by how attractive he is, though there's also something strange about him. His eyes glitter like black quartz, beneath immaculately shaped brows. His beard is also intricately trimmed, and his fine-tailored clothes probably cost more than our home.

"I'm pleased to make your acquaintance." He reaches for my hand and raises it to his lips. He brushes the back of my palm against his mouth, fixing his unusual eyes on me. "Congratulations on being reaped," he adds. "It's quite the honor to be part of this."

Though I had little to do with that, I err on the side of decorum and thank him, and shift on the balls of my feet as he crosses to my desk and sets down the portfolio he carries. He unlatches the clasp and removes a tablet device and a thick manila folder. He reminds my mother that she'll need to stay in the room as he goes over the contract with me, and she nods her assent.

I notice Prim loitering in the doorway, holding Buttercup, and I raise my brows at her. She grins and makes a face at Seneca's back, thrusting her chin up, sending her nose into the air. Then she giggles. The sound grabs Seneca's attention, and he aims a scornful look at my sister.

"If your younger daughter is going to be a distraction, madam, she will need to make herself scarce. As it is, some of the contract deals with questions of a personal, intimate nature and perhaps Lady Katniss—"

"I'm fine with Prim being here," I pipe up. "There are no secrets between my sister and me."

Seneca barely veils his displeasure, and for a moment I think that he's going to order Prim to leave, but he holds his tongue and reaches back into his breast pocket. He withdraws a slim jewel-encrusted wand and approaches me.

"Arm please."

I oblige and have my arm scanned. From its place on my desk, the tablet lights up, and I can see my portrait dominate the screen. Seneca slips the wand back inside his jacket, and he retrieves the tablet.

"Lady Katniss, you are now the property of Panem—"

I nearly choke on my tongue, and a violent coughing spasm racks my body. Seneca watches me, bemused, while Effie wears an expression of outward disdain.

"How can I be anyone's property…?" I ask, confused.

Seneca smiles at me. "Your body, miss. Your _body_ belongs to Panem. The young woman who Prince Peeta chooses to be his queen will be the mother of his children. She will birth the heir to the throne, the future ruler of Panem. Thus, it is your responsibility to do everything in your power to take care of yourself, starting now. Your health is paramount, your body a sacred vessel."

I hear Prim struggle to stifle her snickering, but I'm not amused by what Seneca has just told me. Is nothing my own anymore?

And it gets better, because he commences to rattle off a myriad of conditions that I am to abide by: beginning today, I am to take a regimen of vitamins prescribed by the royal doctor, a man by the name of Aurelius. At some point within my first forty-eight hours in the palace, I will be summoned to see him for a comprehensive physical and mental exam.

"But I just had my yearly checkup," I point out. "I submitted the documentation with my application."

"That was for screening purposes. The king and queen reserve the right to have each of you examined by _their_ medical staff, and they will exercise that right."

Seneca continues, informing me that all the food and beverage that I consume from here on out must be provided to me in a formal setting. My meals will either be taken with the other girls, in the dining hall at the palace, or brought to me in my private chambers and monitored by my attendants. He says it's a matter of security. I'm not certain what that means, but it's the other thing he said that gets my attention.

"I have attendants?"

There's that patronizing smirk, a near facsimile of the one Effie favors. Apparently it's a prerequisite for working for the House of Mellark.

He says, "Yes. Each girl has a complement of attendants: your maid, your stylist, your beautification expert and his or her assistants, and your escort, though they are shared amongst the girls of the same district. In addition, guards will be posted outside your door at all times, responsible for several rooms per wing.

"You've already met Effie. You will not meet your maid until you arrive at the palace tomorrow evening, but Cinna will be here shortly to take your measurements, so I'd like to finish up with my duties and get on to the Undersee home." His tone tells me that I'm to stop interrupting and delaying his progress. But I can't. This is my life—a life that is no longer mine alone, and I'll be damned if I give up every last shred of independence that I have. I'll ask as many questions as I please.

After several more minutes of instructions about nutrition and what I am to eat and what I am not to eat, Seneca brings up the subject of alcohol.

"As you are under the age of 18, you are not to imbibe in any kind of alcohol consumption, other than the occasional glass of champagne when it's provided to you. In those instances, you are to have one glass and one glass only. Any violation of this will be dealt with harshly. Is that understood?"

"Yes, understood." That will not be a problem for me. My father once allowed me to sneak a sip of the beer that is his indulgence on holidays, and the sour, stale taste of the malt on my tongue lingered for hours. As a result, I've harbored no curiosity about any other forms of alcohol. But as there are girls in the competition who are 18, I wonder if the rules are different for them. I know from some of the vagrants who live (if you can call it that) in or near the Hob, alcohol abuse can do awful things to your mind and body.

Seneca steeples his fingers and drums the tips against each other, a pleased smile gracing his lips. "Excellent. Let's move on to the status of your purity."

I gape at him. "I already—"

"Yes, I know. But as with the physical exam, we cannot leave any room for dishonesty. I'll need you to affirm your virginity in my presence, with witness to sign the oath." He clears his throat. "Lady Katniss, do you swear on the crown of Panem that your body and heart are chaste, having never been given to another?"

"I swear," I whisper.

"And do you swear that you will not engage in any intimate relations with the prince, unless he initiates it, or if he selects you for his bride and you are wedded as man and wife?"

"I do. I mean, I swear."

"Mrs. Everdeen, as the mother of the Reaped, can you affirm that your daughter has never lain with a man?"

My mother smiles at me. "I can."

"And can you affirm that your daughter is as pure today as the day you gave birth to her?"

I catch Prim's eye and we exchange a look of disgust. There's something about the way that question is phrased that sounds entirely wrong, juxtaposing the notion of my virginity with my mother's memory of me as a newborn. Ick. But she nods and repeats that she can indeed affirm that, and Seneca appears placated. He hands me a gleaming silver pen and shows me where to sign and date the oath, and once my mother and Effie follow suit, he adds his own with a flourish. Then he extracts some kind of small metal contraption from his bag, slides the sheaf of paper inside it and presses, raising the seal of Panem on the bottom of the page, to the right of our signatures.

"I think that takes care of that," he announces, sliding the papers back into his satchel. "Now there is the matter of your interaction with the prince and the other contestants. Prince Peeta is in control of this competition. He shall decide with whom he spends his time, and you are not to solicit his attention outside of the sanctioned competitions and any events, including meals, that he attends. You are forbidden to be anywhere near his private chambers unless he sends for you. Do you understand?"

I nod.

"Your loyalty is to Prince Peeta. He is the only male with whom you are to have any kind of romantic contact. There are a number of young males in positions throughout the palace, mostly guards, and some girls just can't help themselves. You must understand that should you be caught in any kind of compromising position with a guard or attendant, you are subject to charges of treason against the crown.

"In addition, you are not to engage in any kind of physical contact with the other contestants. Fighting is subject to dismissal at the prince's discretion. You may not sabotage another contestant. This includes but is not limited to spying, eavesdropping, entering another girl's chamber without permission, stealing, and slandering another contestant to Prince Peeta.

"Lady Katniss, do you understand these rules as I have explained them to you?"

I nod, and Effie shoots me a look. "I do," I respond.

He picks up the tablet and his finger moves rapidly across the screen, tapping repeatedly. He demands my arm once more, scans it again, and the tablet emits a melodic chirp before a robotic voice declares, "File secure," and the screen goes black. "I'm all done here, Effie."

"Wonderful. Thank you, Seneca."

Seneca offers his hand to my mother, and then he turns to me. "Good luck, Lady Katniss."

I catch my mother's eye just as Seneca is about to stride past me. She mimes a curtsy, and though I sigh inwardly, I drop a curtsy as best I as I can, though I'm going to have to practice being more graceful about it, I suppose.

"Oh!" I exclaim, straightening up. "Mr. Crane, may I ask you something?"

He looks surprised, his eyebrows arching into perfect crescents before his face shifts back to a more serious expression. "Yes, of course," he replies.

I hesitate, because before I speak, I realize it sounds sort of trite to question the title of Lady, but my curiosity wins out. "Will everyone address me as Lady?"

Seneca chuckles quietly. "From here on out, Lady Katniss, unless you are the one chosen by Prince Peeta, you will always be known by that title. All Reaped girls are bequeathed the title as a demarcation of honor. The 35 girls who do not win the competition are provided for generously upon their elimination, depending on when they exit the palace. Unless, of course, they are removed for violations."

"How so?"

Effie butts in. "It's fabulous, dear. In addition to the weekly stipends that will be paid to your family as long as you remain in the competition, the royal family provides generously for your loved ones should you make it to be a Tribute—one of the five finalists. Those four girls shall receive a lovely new home in the Capitol, and the most prestigious men in the country shall court them. The fifth, as you know, will remain in the palace, as Victor. Prince Peeta's wife. The next Queen of Panem."

"And that, my dear, will be you," an unfamiliar voice declares. It's soft but rich and confident, and it instantly warms me. I turn to see a strikingly handsome man standing in the doorway beside Prim, a garment bag draped over his right arm. She gazes at him with an awed, dreamy look on her face.

"Ah, Cinna! Wonderful! Come in, come in!" Effie twitters.

This man called Cinna and Seneca exchange brief hellos before Seneca bids us goodbye and disappears through my door. Cinna crosses to my closet, hangs up the garment bag, then comes to stand in front of me, and smiles.

It's almost unnatural how pretty he is—I'd never thought a man could be _pretty_. But Cinna is. He totally is. More than anything, it's his eyes that I'm drawn to. The color alone—an amber so deep it's practically gold—would be enough to seduce a woman, but there's an innate kindness emanating from them that tells me that I'll be able to trust him. As off-putting as Effie is, I get the exact opposite vibe from him. I cannot help but smile back.

"You must be Lady Katniss," he drawls, holding out his hand. "I'm Cinna, your stylist."

"Hi. Yes, I'm Katniss." His grip is strong, but his palm is warm, and it feels like I'm shaking hands with an old friend.

"You're beautiful," Cinna praises. "This is going to make my job very, very easy."

"What is your job? As my stylist, I mean," I ask. I think I see Effie make a face, but Cinna obliges me and explains his duties as a stylist. He tells me I will be wearing nothing of my own for the duration of the competition. The palace provides all our clothes, leaving the choice and designs up to the individual stylists, except for the outfit that he says all the girls will be wearing for their departures tomorrow, which he says is what he hung in my closet.

"It's so that all the girls arrive in identical fashion, thus giving the public, and more importantly, the prince, an unbiased look at your bodies and your faces," Effie interjects.

Cinna steps back and looks me up and down. His brows furrow and his full lips purse thoughtfully. "Can you take off the robe please?"

I hesitate. It's not that the request makes me uncomfortable, but I know it's not proper for me to be in nothing more than a nightgown in front of any man.

Effie waves a hand dismissively. "Do as he says, Lady Katniss. You have nothing to worry about with Cinna. Your modesty is safe." I must look puzzled, because Cinna laughs softly and lowers his voice.

"She means that I'm not a threat to your virtue."

I shake my head. I'm still confused.

"All of the male stylists commissioned by the palace are gay," Effie announces. "So you need not worry about being naked in front of Cinna."

My cheeks burn and I avoid my mother's eyes. It's mortifying that she's even hearing this conversation, and I'm sure it's equally unsettling for her to hear my body discussed so cavalierly. And as much as I like Cinna already, it's a little disconcerting to think that he will be the first man to see me naked.

"It's okay, Lady Katniss. I know this is all a little overwhelming for you. I'm going to make sure that you're comfortable with every step of this process," Cinna assures me. He winks and motions to my robe. "If it makes you feel better, to start, I can let you put on your undergarments and we can do the measurements with you not quite naked yet."

Cinna ushers Effie, my mother, and Prim outside so that I can shed my nightgown in privacy. I quickly locate a simple cotton bra and matching pair of panties and put them on before allowing Cinna and Effie back into the room. My mother and Prim are no longer with them. Effie sashays across the floor, pulls out my desk chair, and perches on the edge of it, her talon-like fingernails flying over the keys of another tablet device.

Cinna pulls out a measuring tape and a little notebook.

"I like to do things the old-fashioned way," he winks, snapping the tape outward. "Stand still, please."

He works quickly to obtain my measurements, and as he scribbles down the figures on the paper, he explains that most of our daily wardrobes will come from a massive collection that the stylists have access to. But they are responsible for designing a variety of dresses and gowns for the numerous functions and events that we will be expected to attend.

"Lucky for me, I won't have a problem with either." His eyes gleam. "With a figure like yours, I'll be able to put you in anything."

I glance down at my nearly nude body and wrinkle my nose. "Me?"

"Yes you."

I flush. "I'm nothing special."

"That's where you're wrong. Stop thinking that way," he chides. "No girl of mine is going to have that attitude. You are going to dazzle all of Panem, Lady Katniss. I'm not allowed to bet, but if I could, I'd bet on you."

When I arch a brow at him and ask him what he means by that, Effie, who has clearly been listening to my conversation with Cinna in spite of trying to look busy, interrupts us. "The Reaping," she says, sounding self-important, "is a gambler's dream. There will be bets placed on everything from the little competitions that will earn you time with the Prince, to the eliminations, to who will make the cut as Tributes…you name it, they'll bet on it. The Capitol bookies have been salivating over this for well over a year."

"They don't have anything better to do?"

Cinna and Effie both laugh, though the laughs are disparate. "My dear, that _is_ what they do."

I hide my disgust, because I've already developed a mild distaste for Effie's bluntness and I don't want a lecture, but the fact that these Capitolites live so ostentatiously that they can capriciously give money away—it seems so wasteful. How much good could come from all that money if it went to those who truly need it?

Cinna rolls up his tape and shoves it and the notebook back into the pocket of his leather duster jacket. "I think I have everything I need to get started." He retrieves my robe from where it's draped across my bed, and hands it to me. "Good luck tomorrow, and safe travels. I'll see you at the palace, Lady Katniss." He kisses my cheek, and when he leaves, the heady scent of clove and sandalwood lingers in his wake.

My mother offers Effie lunch, but Effie bluntly declines, breezily explaining that she'll eat once she's back on the train.

"Oh, where are you going after this?" Prim asks.

Effie laughs airily. "Nowhere. I'm staying on the train until tomorrow. But the accommodations are fabulous." She turns to me. "Will this be your first train ride?" I nod and she squeals. "Oh, you are in for a treat!"

"I thought she'd get to ride in a Hovercraft," says Prim.

"Oh, she might. Eventually. But for the arrivals, the train is preferable. Each district has been assigned its own, and it shall allow us to make several stops for photo opportunities. That's just not feasible in the Hovercrafts."

Effie watches my mother like a hawk as she prepares lunch, and she once again reminds me that once I'm at the palace, I'm not to touch any food or drink that hasn't been specifically prepared for me. She stresses the same notion that Seneca did, that it's a matter of security.

"The kitchen staff is closely monitored as well," she adds. "If an enemy of the crown were to have access to the food supply…" she trails off, and I fill in the blank with my own gruesome ideas of poisonous berries or tainted spices.

Just before lunch is ready, Effie sits me down and hands me a thick file.

"Everything else you need to know is in there." She gestures to it. "You'll find maps of the palace, so that you may begin to get yourself acquainted with the grounds. You'll also find brief dossiers on each of your competitors. As Seneca explained to you, there is to be no sabotage among you ladies, but knowing your competition could give you an edge at times."

The last thing she informs me is that all the girls will be required to attend various lessons, instructed in things like etiquette or the history of Panem. It sounds awful, but I grit my teeth and smile politely when she references a primer that she stuck in the binder for me.

Finally, with a waggle of her bejeweled fingers, Effie departs, promising she'll see me bright and early tomorrow, with my beautification expert in tow. I can't imagine it will be earlier than she arrived this morning, but I keep that comment to myself.

As I step onto the porch to watch her struggling up the street, I gasp at the crowd that has assembled outside our house. People are waving and calling my name, clapping wildly at the sight of me.

"This is all for you," Prim breathes, in awe. "What's it going to be like tomorrow?"

I tug her by the arm and hastily close the door, shutting out the scene. It's another reminder that all the normal I've known for sixteen years is gone.

* * *

><p>I awaken before dawn, though it's mostly because for the second straight night, I hardly manage any quality sleep. I feel it more this morning, my body sluggish, reluctant to get moving. I tug my knees to my chin, and spend a few quiet minutes watching the sun rise over the trees. I hope my room in the palace faces east.<p>

My sister is sound asleep, her blonde hair a veil across her face, her left arm dangling off the bed. I stare down at her, smiling wistfully. Then I tiptoe to the closet, slide the doors open without a sound, and reach for the garment bag. The Mellark crest is embroidered on the black vinyl. I take a breath and slide the zipper down.

I don't know why I was expecting something more elaborate. The black dress is simple, with little ornamentation, just some lace and crystal beading beneath the bust. It's strapless and looks like it will fall to about my knees. I realize, as I take it off the hanger, that cups have been sewn into the bodice. I've never seen that before. I suppose it eliminates the need for a bra, which is a plus in my book. I've always hated wearing bras.

Prim stirs just as I'm pulling on the lacy panties and she props her head on her elbow and gazes at me through bleary eyes. A sluggish smile lifts her lips and at once, she's up and standing before me.

"Do you want help?" she asks.

I smile. "Sure, Little Duck."

My sister and I have changed in front of each other for years. I've never given much thought to being naked in front of her, but for some reason this morning, it's different. Maybe it has something to do with being exposed in front of strangers yesterday and knowing that another group of strangers awaits me at the palace, but I'm more aware of my body now. In spite of Cinna's praise about my figure, I'm sure that the other girls will be curvier and will fill out this dress, and all their other clothes, better than I. As Prim helps me tug the dress into place and I adjust my breasts in the cups, I frown at my reflection.

"What?" Prim asks, catching my eyes in the mirror as she carefully zips up the dress.

I shake my head, feeling silly for being so self-conscious and even having such a thought in the first place.

"Oh! You've started without us!" that shrill voice calls from the doorway. Effie claps her hands and sashays into the room. Prim and I share a look. I never even heard the door.

"That dress looks stunning on you!" Effie cries, placing her hands on my shoulders and holding me out at arm's length. She cocks her head to the side and her eyes dart down to my chest. Her lips twitch. "We should have thought to ask Cinna to give the bust a little more padding though, hmm?"

Before I can let myself worry too much over Effie pointing out my many imperfections, a woman who can only be my beautification expert strides into my room, followed by two other people, both toting massive wheeled suitcases and neither of whom I am entirely certain of their gender.

If I thought Effie was outlandish, this woman is downright alien, with her green-tinted skin and her magenta hair. Her lashes are adorned with some kind of purple gems, and she's heavier than I've ever seen a Capitolite. She clearly enjoys the indulgent food they feast on there.

She stops in front of me, leans in, offering air kisses to my cheeks, and introduces herself as Octavia. Then she announces, "Well you were right, Effie. Her skin is flawless. But my dear, did you sleep at all last night? My goodness, the bags under your eyes!" She clicks her tongue and begins rummaging through a satchel. "Hold still," she commands, pointing some kind of small roller at me. I wince as it passes back and forth. It's cool to the touch, but within seconds my skin starts to tingle, and then it burns.

"What is that?" I blink rapidly, though it doesn't do anything to help the burning.

"It'll make the swelling go down," she replies. "You'll look fresh and rested as soon as the venom does its magic."

I gape at her. "Venom?"

"Oh, relax, sweetie. Just a little bit of snake venom. Works wonders on bags, takes the puffiness right out. But really, if you're having trouble sleeping, we'll have something added to your daily vitamin regimen. A sleep aid."

"No!" I protest. "No pills. It's just nerves. I'm sure once I'm at the palace I'll sleep better."

Effie claps her hands again, ending the discussion. "Alright, let's get moving. It's a big, big, big day, and we don't have much time!"

"I thought yesterday was a big, big, big day," Prim murmurs, winking at me. My mother shoots her a warning glance and tells her to get dressed and go milk her goat.

It doesn't take nearly as long for Octavia and the other two, Venia, and Flavius (I think Venia is a woman and Flavius is a man), to get me ready as it did for my mother and Prim the morning I submitted my application. Within an hour, my hair has been curled and set into soft waves that tumble down my back, with just a few strands woven into a braid that encircles my head. My makeup is flawless, making my grey eyes sparkle, and there isn't a trace of bruising beneath them. My skin glows and the shade of lipstick they choose makes my smile seem almost as bright as the prince's.

"Oh my," Effie breathes. "Yes, you _are_ going to be quite the contender." She seems almost giddy at my appearance.

Then they leave me alone in my room, with the command to pack the one bag that I am allowed to bring with me. I don't have much in the way of material possessions, and even if I could bring it, the one thing I'd want—my bow—wouldn't fit. I toss in some random things—a few photographs, two books, and even though personal clothing are forbidden, my hunting jacket. I won't wear it, but the presence of it will be comforting.

"Almost done?"

I turn and face my father, gesturing to the bag. "It seems a little sad that's all I could think to bring."

He smiles and hobbles into the room. "I have something for you, if you can find a place to stow it." He unfurls his fist. I gaze down at the burnished gold pin resting on his open palm. The brooch boasts a mockingjay, the tips of its wings just barely breaching the circle. An arrow in flight passes beneath the bird's tail.

"It belonged to your grandfather," he explains, pressing it into my hand. "I've been waiting for the right time to give it to you."

"It's beautiful. Thank you, Dad."

"Just a little something from home to remind you where you come from." He wraps me in a tight embrace. "We're going to miss you." Then he draws back and winks. "But I hope it's awhile before we see you again."

* * *

><p>Everyone is waiting for me in the front room when I finally make my way downstairs. My mother and Prim fuss over how beautiful I look. Murmuring my thanks, I drop my bag by the door and peer out the window. I blink twice to be sure I'm seeing what I'm seeing. "You've got to be kidding me."<p>

Effie makes a little sound, blowing out her lips and waving her arm dismissively. "You didn't think you were going to walk to the train station, did you? Oh, no, Lady Katniss. This—this is how a future queen rides in style." She waves her arm again, this time giving an exaggerated gesture towards the carriage that idles in front of our house.

"Now then," she declares, her tone becoming business-like, "we have only a few minutes before you'll be introduced and we'll need to depart. This is your chance to make a lasting first impression on the country. Smile for the camera. Wave. Charm them. Dazzle them. Make them like you. The royal family will be taking note of how the public responds to each of you." She pauses dramatically. "And Prince Peeta will be watching."

Of course he will. What else does he have to do?

"Oh! One more thing!" Effie exclaims as she reaches into her jacket. She presses a small piece of paper into my mother's hand. "Your first payment."

Though she tries to be inconspicuous when my mother peers at the check, I can see her eyes widen and the restrained elation tugging at her lips.

"Thank you," she says sincerely. She and my father share a look. I think about the box below my floorboards and the modest amount of money I have in there. Despite my trepidation about this entire situation, seeing that check in my mother's hand and the glance that passes between my parents stirs something in me, something I had failed to consider in the midst of everything: By going to the palace, I'm helping them far more than I ever could have by staying here with my meager savings. And the longer I stay, the better things get for my family.

"Effie, we're ready for her," a voice barks out. I notice that the large gold bangle bracelet adorning the escort's wrist is some kind of a screen. She speaks into it, assuring the person on the other end that I'm ready to go, her smile even toothier than usual.

"Alright, out you go!" Effie throws open the door, and just like that, I'm being nudged out into the bright sunshine, without a chance to gather my composure and steel my nerves.

"And there she is! Lady Katniss Everdeen!"

I hear Caesar's voice, but when my eyes adjust to the light and I scan the crowd, I don't see him anywhere. Still, I have the presence of mind to heed Effie's advice and smile brightly, waving to the assembled throngs of people. My eyes don't seem to want to settle anywhere, but I hear my name being called in dozens of different voices. I smile and wave, until a whirring sound commands my attention and a camera swivels up to loom before me.

"Keep smiling!" Effie appears beside me and links her arm through mine. She cups her hand and waves to the camera, striding towards the carriage with purpose. I struggle to keep pace while worrying about not tripping on my heels. The camera follows us, and I catch snippets of Caesar rattling off biographical information about me.

A man steps down from the carriage once Effie and I reach the gleaming gold coach. The golden tassels on his epaulets settle back against the deep blue uniform, which bears the Mellark crest on the left breast pocket. He smiles at me and bows deeply. The horses whicker softly, impatiently stamping their hooves.

"Milady." The man offers me his hand, and I falter.

"Wait! I need to say goodbye to my family!"

Effie sets her jaw and grits out, between clenched teeth while still holding her smile, "You can wave to them. We're on a schedule!"

Anger and frustration swirls in me as I glance back at the front porch, staring helplessly at my parents and my sister. They all have smiles on their faces, and Prim's got Buttercup nestled in her arms. She beams at me and calls, "Be yourself! I love you!"

Discreetly, I take a calming breath, and I give her the most genuine smile I can manage before a hand on the small of my back nudges me forward and another clasps my fingers and I'm ascending the steps of the carriage. Numbly, I sweep my hand under my skirt as I settle on the plush seat cushion. Effie clambers in beside me, barking a command to the man, who pulls the door shut. He blocks my view out the far window, so I can no longer see my parents or Prim. The reins crack, and one of the horses whinnies, and the carriage lurches into motion.

I don't remember much about the ride to the train station. I spend much of it sulking, denied the chance to give a proper goodbye to my parents and my sister. It would have been nice, with them knowing we were all about to be whisked away from our families, to be allowed a final embrace. How tight could the damn schedule be? Effie chides me about pouting and frowning. I think I make a snotty comment about snake venom curing wrinkles. I think the man opposite us chuckles.

The train station is an even bigger spectacle. Everywhere I look there are people: Little girls wearing crowns are hoisted atop their fathers' shoulders. Signs are thrust high in the air, bearing the names of 12's girls. I see my name, but I think Madge's seems to appear the most. As the man helps me out of the carriage and lifts me onto the platform, the crowd erupts in applause and chants of my name. I gaze out into the sea of faces and take a deep breath, absorbing the enormity of all of this.

"Come, come!" Effie urges, marching me down the platform to where Delly and Madge already await us. How did I get so lucky to be the one Effie personally brought to the station? Another one of those floating cameras whizzes before us.

"And finally," Caesar intones, "we head back to District 12. Girls, anything you'd like to say before you head off to the palace?"

The camera hovers in front of Delly first. She bounces on her feet, waves of giddiness roiling off her. She beams. "I'm just so excited to be a part of all of this. I hope to make District 12 proud!"

The camera whirs and I swallow as it stops in front of me. "Lady Katniss?" Caesar's voice prompts. It's mildly disorienting to hear him and not see him, and the hum of the crowd is becoming overwhelming. My mind goes blank and in a panic, I can only echo what Delly said, though I might have said I was honored, as opposed to being excited. As the camera advances to Madge, Effie's voice hisses from behind me, "It's a good thing you'll be getting public speaking lessons as well."

Madge speaks eloquently, her pretty face maintaining a luminous smile the entire time. She works in praise for the monarchy, and also makes reference to her father, and the buzz of the crowd grows as she curtsies when she finishes talking.

"Gosh, she's good," Delly whispers to me, watching Madge admiringly. "The prince is bound to like her."

I can't argue with that. Madge will easily be one of the frontrunners in this competition.

Caesar ends his broadcast, and the train doors glide open. Delly, Madge and I are each handed our satchels, and we walk towards the nearest door. I aim one last look at the crowd, and my eyes lock on Gale's. I hadn't noticed him among the crush of bodies earlier, but he stares at me, his grey eyes impassive. I quirk a small smile at him, but he remains stoic. Just as I go to turn away, he shakes his head at me and mouths one word to me: _Don't. _

Puzzled, I shake my head back at him, lift my chin, and board the train, leaving Gale, my family, and District 12 behind.

* * *

><p><em>So long, for now, Gale. Onto the palace…and Prince Peeta. I hope the next chapter will be up by the end of the month! Thank you for reading. :) <em>


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